UC-NRLF 


MARY  •  HARWELL  •  CATHE1 


>  JHarp  J>arttoeil  CatfcertoooU. 


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HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE 
SWAMP 


©tfter  plain  Americans 


BY 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
e  prcjs?,  Cambridge 
1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 


393771 


NOTE 

SOME  of  these  stories  were  written  more 
than  a  dozen  years  ago.  They  have  been 
gathered  in  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Har- 
per's Bazar,  Outing,  the  Independent,  the 
Delineator,  the  Chicago  Tribune,  the  late 
Chicago  Graphic,  and  Lippincott's  Maga- 
zine, by  courteous  permission  of  the  editors ; 
and  revised  year  after  year.  Many  of  them 
embody  phases  of  American  life  which  have 
entirely  passed  away,  or  are  yet  to  be  found 
in  secluded  spots  like  eddies  along  the  mar- 
gin of  the  nation's  progress.  Their  honest 
preservation  of  middle  western  experience 
makes  them,  at  least  in  the  author's  eyes, 
seem  worthy  themselves  of  preservation. 

The  Puritan  and  the  Church  of  England 
took  possession  of  the  Atlantic  seaboard, 
north  and  south ;  and  Jesuit  and  Eecollet 
missionaries  carried  the  cross  through  Can- 
ada and  down  the  Mississippi.  But  the  pio- 
neer evangelist  of  the  Middle  West  was  the 
Methodist  itinerant. 


CONTENTS 

OHIO. 

THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP  ....  1 

THE  STIKBING-OFF       .        .        .        .        .  29 

SWEETNESS       .        ....        •        .55 

SERENA         .        .        .        .        .        .        .  77 

ROSE  DAY .106 

KENTUCKY. 

A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS       .        .        .        .  129 

INDIANA. 

THE  FAIRFIELD  POET      .        .        .        .        .  155 

T'FERGORE    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  175 

ILLINOIS. 

BEETRUS 285 

THE  BRIDE  OF  ARNE  SANDSTROM     .        .  253 

THE  BABE  JEROME 270 

THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER      .        .        .        .  301 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR  .        .        .  320 

The  Babe  Jerome,  Rose  Day,  The  Bride  of  Arne  Sandstrom,  The 
Fairfield  Poet,  and  Beetrus  are  reprinted  from  "Harper's  Bazar," 
and  The  Queen  of  the  Swamp  from  Harper's  "  Christmas,"  by  per- 
mission of  the  publishers,  Messrs  Harper  &  Brothers. 


OHIO 


THE   QUEEN   OF   THE  SWAMP 


TIME,  1846 

ON  Christmas  Day  a  large  congregation 
poured  from  George's  Chapel  into  the  early 
dusk.  Quarterly  meeting,  which  for  a  week 
had  drawn  together,  not  only  the  neighbor- 
hood, but  people  from  Millersport,  Basil, 
and  even  Kirkersville,  closed  that  afternoon. 
The  presiding  elder  and  his  assistants  were 
wrapping  up  their  throats  and  joking  with 
each  other,  for  the  occasion  had  been  blessed 
with  converts  and  a  fairly  liberal  collection. 

These  men  must  ride  on  around  the  cir- 
cuit, risking  health,  and  accepting  whatever 
fell  to  their  lot,  yet  nothing  checked  their 
flow  of  spirits.  The  only  solemn  person 
near  the  group  was  Mr.  Warner,  a  local 
preacher  and  exhorter,  who  habitually  prayed 
with  a  war-whoop,  and  kept  the  young  people 


OF  THE  SWAMP 

tittering  at  his  pompous  phrases.  His  fa- 
ther, an  aged  apparition,  tottering  on  a 
stick,  was  circulating  genially  to  shake 
every  hand,  known  or  unknown,  and  in- 
quire, toothlessly,  "Hi-ya!  hi-ya!  how's 
your  consarn?"  which  being  interpreted 
meant,  "  How  are  you,  how  are  you,  how 's 
your  concern?"  (in  religion). 

Women  clustered  together  near  the  red- 
hot  stove,  exclaiming  to  each  other,  as  their 
work-worn  palms  met,  "  Hoddy-do,  Mis' 
Waddell,  does  your  family  keep  well?" 
and  "  Law !  Mis'  Davis,  it 's  good  for  sore 
eyes  to  see  you  out  to  rneetin'  once  more !  " 
"  Yes,  I  been  kept  close  all  fall,  but  I  told 
him  it  wouldn't  do,  we  must  come  to  big 
meetin'."  "  It 's  been  a  good  time.  One 
o'  my  boys,"  the  speaker  pressing  her  neigh- 
bor's hand,  "  was  gathered  in,  and  I  have 
my  suspicions  the  other  's  touched."  "  Yes, 
there  's  more  under  conviction  than  '11  own 
to  it." 

They  made  excuses  to  each  other  for 
neglecting  neighborly  duties  in  the  past,  but 


THE  QUEEN   OF  THE  SWAMP 

promised,  now  such  good  sleighin'  had  set 
in,  to  go  more.  One  had  had  whooping- 
cough  in  her  family,  another  a  teething 
baby,  and  not  a  few  had  been  very  busy 
getting  the  butchering  done  and  making 
sausage.  The  men-folks  were  also  con- 
stantly hauling  with  the  teams. 

Warm  Christian  feeling  pervaded  the 
whole  separating  assembly,  even  the  young 
girls  greeting  each  other  with  unusual  affec- 
tion. The  young  i/ren  drove  their  convey- 
ances up  to  the  door,  exchanging  merry 
remarks ;  there  were  many  fine  horses,  and 
some  of  the  sleighs  were  painted,  but  the 
general  vehicle  was  a  wagon-bed,  stuffed 
with  straw  and  comforters,  and  running  on 
two  short  sleds  called  "bobs." 

Theophilus  Gill's  sleigh  was  of  this  pat- 
tern, and  he  intended  to  drive  the  young 
folks  to  Macauley's.  His  spirited  team 
pranced  so  that  he  stood  up  to  control  it, 
though  at  full  height  Theophilus  Gill  was 
but  a  little  fellow.  He  had,  however,  a 
strong  black  beard. 


4  THE  QUEEN   OF  THE  SWAMP 

"  How  many  goin'  in  our  load,  Theoph  ?  " 
inquired  Philip  Welchammer,  resting  one 
foot  on  the  forward  runner. 

"  'Bout  ten  couple.  Mart,  he 's  got  to 
take  his  mother  home,  so  he  won't  be 
along." 

"You  feel  like  as  if  you  could  spare 
him?" 

"  I  always  ken.  Now,  don't  you  go  to  cut 
me  out  if  I  try  to  engage  her  company  for 
Sunday  night." 

"  Oh,  you  and  Mart  fer  it,"  said  Philip. 
"  I  ain't  fer  cuttin'  neither  of  ye  out.  But 
Persilla  Thompson  's  a  pretty  girl." 

"She's  the  Queen  of  the  Swamp,"  said 
little  Gill,  with  emphasis. 

Priscilla  at  this  moment  stepped  down 
from  the  chapel  threshold  into  the  snow,  to 
wait  for  her  party.  Philip  brought  her  to 
the  sled  and  Gill  insisted  on  placing  her  in 
a  warm  and  sheltered  place  just  behind  the 
driver's  bench,  which  he  had  specially  pre- 
pared for  her. 

"Macauley's    is    makin'     a    big    house- 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP  5 

warmin'  this  Chris'mas,"  remarked  Pris- 
cilla's  little  suitor  to  her.  "They's  four 
tables  full  of  old  folks  to  their  turkey-roast, 
and  the  young  folks  all  invited  in  the  evenin'. 
I  reckon  the  old  lady 's  doin'  it  for  Mart. 
She  's  bound  for  him  to  marry  that  Miller 
girl,  some  says." 

Priscilla  replied,  with  pleasant  noncha- 
lance, she  reckoned  so.  She  did  not  look 
at  Mart  Macauley  at  all,  but  she  saw  him 
watching  her  while  he  untied  his  bay  filly, 
and  held  its  head  until  his  mother  finished 
talking  with  her  dinner  guests. 

He  had  loved  Priscilla  Thompson  when 
she  was  a  little  girl  with  black  plaits  of  hair 
hanging  down  her  linsey  back.  In  those 
days  he  gave  her  a  bead  purse,  and  whipped 
all  her  tormentors.  When  she  began  to  be 
a  big  girl  he  shyly  courted  her,  stopping  his 
plough  by  the  fence  if  he  saw  her  coming, 
and  dropping  in  of  a  Sunday  night  to  see 
her  brother,  whom  he  despised,  and  who  had 
since  married  and  left  him  without  excuse 
for  his  visits.  When  she  got  a  certificate 


6  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

and  went  into  the  Kemmerer  neighborhood 
to  teach  school,  with  her  clothes  neatly 
packed  in  a  large  wicker  basket,  he  had  no 
peace  of  mind  all  summer.  He  had  himself 
been  to  Worthington  to  college,  but  in  all 
his  experience  saw  no  one  to  compare  with 
her.  Wherever  he  saw  her,  so  modest  and 
lovely  in  manner,  he  cherished  the  ground 
her  shoes  rested  on.  The  cold  air  gave  her 
a  bright  color,  which  the  depth  and  length 
of  her  bonnet  could  not  conceal.  She  wore 
a  wadded  alpaca  cloak  and  cloak  cape,  and 
Martin's  memory  showed  him  how  trimly 
under  these  her  delaine  dress  was  coat- 
sleeved  to  her  arm  and  pointed  at  her 
waist. 

Mrs.  Macauley,  climbing  into  her  own 
sleigh,  could  take  no  exceptions  to  Priscilla 
Thompson's  manner  or  appearance,  though 
she  would  have  done  so  gladly  for  the  bene- 
fit of  her  favorite  son.  Mrs.  Macauley  dis- 
liked the  Thompsons.  Her  husband  before 
his  death  objected  to  them.  She  thought 
little  Theophilus  Gill  the  best  match  in  the 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP  7 

neighborhood  for  Priscilla  Thompson.  Her 
own  large  light-haired  son  was  too  dutiful 
to  marry  without  her  consent.  She  was 
educating  him  to  be  a  doctor ;  the  younger 
boys  could  work  the  farm  under  her  direc- 
tion. She  expected  Martin  to  do  his  family 
credit  by  looking  higher  than  the  Thomp- 
sons. 

Priscilla,  on  her  part,  held  Mrs.  Macauley 
in  secret  aversion.  She  felt  sorry  for  Mar- 
tin's younger  brothers  and  sisters,  who  were 
all  obliged  to  stand  in  a  row  and  take  pills 
or  tincture  before  breakfast.  Mrs.  Macau- 
ley  was  too  high-handed  and  all-prevailing. 
Priscilla's  disposition  was  cheerful,  but  that 
Ohio  region  known  as  the  Swamp  could  not 
escape  the  tinge  of  the  period,  and  at  that 
date  the  extremely  feminine  woman  with  a 
bias  toward  melancholy  was  the  standard. 
Mrs.  Macauley  was  so  mannish  that  Pris- 
cilla thought  her  fully  entitled  to  the  tufts 
of  beard  in  her  moles. 

The  young  people  crowded  merrily  into 
Theophilus  Gill's  sled.  They  all  knew  how 


8  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

matters  stood  between  the  Macauleys  and 
Thompsons.  The  Thompsons,  excepting 
Priscilla,  who  was  a  reticent  girl,  talked 
about  the  Macauleys,  and  the  Macauleys 
held  their  heads  rather  high,  excepting 
Mart ;  but  he  thought  the  world  of  his 
mother.  The  girls  suspected  Priscilla  was 
going  to-night  because  her  staying  away 
would  make  talk.  Some  of  them  believed 
Theophilus  Gill  would  get  her,  and  others 
thought  things  might  take  a  turn  so  that 
she  would  marry  Mart  Macauley  after  all. 

There  was  a  day  when  she  would  have 
given  half  her  life  to  go  to  Macauley 's,  but 
stayed  away.  That  was  when  Martin  broke 
his  collar-bone  racing  his  bay  filly.  No- 
body knew  that  she  hid  in  her  father's 
field  corn-crib  all  that  day.  Yet  it  was  not 
an  occasion  for  extravagant  fears.  Mrs. 
Macauley  was  the  best  nurse  in  Fairfield 
County,  and  soon  had  her  son  mended  to 
perfection. 

A  few  flakes  of  snow  fell  on  Gill's  load, 
and  made  it  all  the  merrier.  No  joke  could 


THE  QUEEN   OF   THE     SWAMP         9 

fail  to  strike  fire  at  once  on  the  steel-clear 
air,  and  many  a  time-honored  one  was  re- 
peated by  the  young  men  as  their  fathers 
before  them  had  repeated  it,  and  enjoyed  by 
the  girls  as  their  mothers  had  enjoyed  it. 

Philip  Welchammer  was  pitied  for  hav- 
ing his  arm  out  of  place,  and  Nora  Wad- 
dell,  discovering  it  at  that  instant  around 
her,  told  him  tartly  there  is  folks  that  their 
room's  better  than  their  comp'ny.  Upon 
this  he  genially  retorted  that  she  never 
made  no  such  fuss  when  they  were  out 
sleigh-ridin'  alone  ;  and  Nora  glowed  in  her 
red  merino  hood  while  the  laugh  turned 
upon  her. 

Then  a  girl's  voice,  to  cover  her  confu- 
sion, started  a  thrilling  old  revival  hymn, 
and  the  load  poured  its  bass  and  treble 
through  the  lines.  Darkness  approached  as 
near  as  the  white  world  would  allow.  The 
triumphant  strain  echoed  among  treetops 
and  stirred  emotion  in  Priscilla. 

"  There,  there  on  eagles'  wings  I  soar, 
And  sense  and  sin  are  felt  no  more. 


10    THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

There  heaven  comes  down  our  souls  to  greet, 
And  glory  crowns  the  Mercy  Seat  — 
And  glo-ry  crowns  the  Mer-cy  Seat." 

The  road  was  bounded  by  that  distinc- 
tively American  fence,  the  rail,  or  stake-and- 
ridered,  showing  drifts  of  snow  in  its  angles, 
and  white  lines  like  illuminations  along  the 
top  of  every  licheried  rail.  The  sled  flew 
over  corduroy  spaces  now  deeply  bedded. 
On  each  side  the  trees  rose  out  of  frozen 
pools,  from  which  they  seemed  to  conduct 
a  glazed  coating  upward,  for  every  twig 
glinted  icily  through  the  dusk.  In  spring- 
time, when  the  Feeder  and  creek  rose  out 
of  banks,  acres  of  this  swamp  lay  under 
water,  with  moss  scum  and  rotting  leaves  at 
the  top  and  bottom. 

Priscilla  found  always  in  these  woods  a 
solemn  beauty.  Her  wildest  dream  was  of 
living  deep  in  their  summer  shade  with  an 
unnamed  person,  and  sitting  on  the  door- 
step at  nightfall,  her  hand  locked  in  his. 
The  amber  lights,  the  cry  of  tree-frog  and 
locust,  the  mysterious  snap  of  twigs,  the 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         11 

reverberating  bark  of  a  dog,  the  ceaseless 
motion  of  water  under  a  foot-log,  all  gave 
her  delight.  One  spring  she  worked  in  her 
father's  sugar-camp.  A  bark  shelter  that 
they  passed  reminded  her  of  it,  of  collect- 
ing the  sugar-water,  watching  the  bubbling 
kettles,  and  dropping  the  wax  on  snow,  of 
stirring  off,  which  was  such  a  festival,  and 
at  the  same  time  such  a  miracle,  for  you 
could  feel  the  hardening  wax  grain  to  sugar 
on  your  tongue. 

Theophilus  Gill  turned  his  horses  from 
the  road,  and  drove  through  a  gap  into  the 
woods. 

"What  are  you  doin'  that  for?"  ex- 
claimed John  Davis,  who  loved  a  horse, 
like  every  good  Ohio  man,  but  was  always 
ready  to  sacrifice  it  to  his  comfort  or 
speed. 

Theophilus  explained  there  was  a  bad  bit 
of  road  ahead,  and  the  circuit  through  the 
woods  might  be  better. 

If  he  dreaded  cutting  his  team's  ankles, 
the  danger  was  not  lessened  by  this  choice 


12         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

of  routes.  For  after  some  easy  progress 
and  much  winding  among  saplings  and  jar- 
ring against  stumps,  they  descended  to  a 
seldom-used  bridge  across  the  Feeder,  stand- 
ing like  an  island  in  a  frozen  lake.  The- 
ophilus  Gill  drew  up  his  horses.  There 
was  not  room  in  which  to  turn  back,  and 
the  occupants  of  the  sled  rose  with  some 
apprehension. 

Nora  Waddell  said  she  would  never  go 
over  that  bridge.  Theophilus  observed 
doubtfully  he  'd  risk  gettin'  the  team  across, 
but  mebby  some  of  the  boys  had  better 
walk  over  and  lighten  the  load. 

Everybody  alighted  except  the  driver, 
who  cautiously,  and  reassuring  his  snorting 
horses,  moved  across  the  ice  and  up  the 
bridge.  It  shook  under  their  tread  to  such 
a  degree  that  nearly  all  the  party  resolved 
to  trust  the  ice  in  preference,  and  pushed 
their  tracks  carefully  upon  the  snow-covered 
Feeder.  Besides  Nora  Waddell,  Philip 
Welchammer  took  under  his  charge  Mary 
Thompson,  Priscilla's  flighty  young  sister, 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         13 

who  was  barely  fifteen  and  in  short  dresses, 
but  so  headstrong  that  she  would  go  into 
company  whenever  Priscilla  did.  ^  Starts 
and  exclamations  were  finally  blended  into 
a  general  outcry,  for  the  ice  gave  way,  and 
several  figures  disappeared  to  their  very 
necks.  Then  the  young  men  who  had 
landed  were  prompt  in  action,  while  some  of 
the  girls  showed  courage  and  pioneer  swift- 
ness of  resource.  Philip  and  his  two  com- 
panions were  pulled  out,  and  huddled,  drip- 
ping, into  the  sled,  all  available  covering 
being  piled  upon  them.  Everybody  scram- 
bled in,  and  Theophilus,  restraining  his 
horses,  asked,  in  an  excited  shout,  if  they 
were  all  in.  Mary  Thompson,  through  her 
chattering  teeth,  retorted,  "  Of  course  all  of 
us  were  in,  and  if  he  did  not  mean  to  kill  us 
entirely,  he'd  better  whip  up  and  get  to 
some  fireplace." 

Thus  reproached,  and  by  the  Swamp 
Queen's  sister,  the  young  man  drove  with 
such  zeal  that  his  horses  ran  away,  and 
were  restrained  from  tearing  the  vehicle 


14    THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

to  bits  against  logs  and  fences  only  by  his 
utmost  strength  and  horsemanship. 

Thus  the  party  came  like  a  whirlwind 
up  the  open  lane  to  Macauley's,  and  were 
hurried  into  the  three-story  house,  while 
Macauley's  boys  led  the  horses  away  to  a 
barn  of  similar  magnitude,  where  long  rows 
of  stalls  and  shining  flanks  were  discernible 
by  lantern-light. 

No  less  than  three  fireplaces  had  blazing 
logs  piled  to  the  very  chimney  throats. 
Sarah  Macauley  conducted  the  girls  up- 
stairs to  the  best  room,  from  which  opened 
a  bedchamber  where  they  laid  off  their 
wraps.  The  young  men  found  a  similar 
haven  on  the  other  side  of  the  staircase. 
And  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  logs  snap 
while  frost  lay  so  thick  on  the  two  upper 
porches  which  were  let  into  the  sides  of  the 
house. 

Macauleys  were  very  well  off  indeed. 
The  estate  consisted  of  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  cash,  besides  a  couple  of  farms,  and 
the  largest  homestead  in  the  township.  Mr. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         15 

Macauley  had  accumulated  all  this,  after 
breaking  up  twice  during  his  career,  paying 
security  debts.  Nearly  all  the  floors  were 
carpeted  in  home-made  stripe  or  hit-or-miss, 
and  the  best  beds  reared  backs  as  lofty  and 
imposing  as  the  backs  of  elephants. 

Numbers  of  young  women,  arrived  before 
this  party,  were  basking  in  the  best  room, 
their  hair  and  collars  smoothed,  and  their 
eyes  taking  keen  neighborly  notes  while  the 
hum  of  conversation  went  on.  Miss  Miller 
from  Millersport  was  there,  and  appeared  a 
worthy  rival  for  Priscilla  Thompson.  She 
had  pink  cheeks,  and  pretty  brown  hair  on 
a  low,  delicate  forehead,  these  charms  being 
distractingly  set  in  an  all-wool  blue  merino 
dress  and  ribbon  headdress  to  match.  Miss 
Miller  possessed  two  thousand  dollars  in  her 
own  right,  and  would  come  in  for  all  her 
father's  property  when  he  died.  Besides, 
she  had  attended  select  school  in  Lancaster, 
and  some  said  she  was  so  fine  she  would  cut 
a  bean  in  two  rather  than  lift  the  whole  of 
it  on  the  point  of  her  knife  to  her  very 
pretty  mouth. 


16         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

Mrs.  Macauley  lost  not  an  instant  in  dos- 
ing her  drenched  guests  with  hot  whiskey 
and  ginger  stew.  Other  raiment  was  pro- 
vided for  them.  When  all  the  young  peo- 
ple had  arrived  and  warmed  themselves, 
they  were  to  descend  to  the  dining-room, 
one  of  the  largest  apartments  ever  seen  in 
those  days,  supported  by  a  row  of  posts 
across  the  centre,  and  floored  by  oak  as 
smooth  as  glass.  The  name  of  kitchen 
would  have  fitted  it  as  well,  for  here  the 
family  cooked.  One  of  those  new-fashioned 
iron  machines  called  stoves  stood  beside  the 
fireplace,  having  a  pipe  to  carry  its  smoke 
into  the  chimney.  But  Mrs.  Macauley  often 
said  it  was  not  half  as  much  use  to  her  as 
the  Dutch  ovens  she  always  baked  in,  over 
the  coals. 

A  line  of  chairs  waited  around  the  sides 
of  the  dining-room.  The  pantry,  opening 
at  one  end,  half  revealed  stacks  of  Christ- 
mas provisions  on  shelves. 

But  there  was  to  be  no  such  godless 
amusement  as  dancing.  The  young  people 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         17 

would  frolic  and  play  plays  with  kissing 
penalties,  which  could  by  no  means  corrupt 
them  as  much  as  joining  hands  and  jump- 
ing to  the  tune  of  a  fiddle. 

Groups  were  already  descending  to  the 
dining-room,  and  Mary  Thompson  struggled 
hard  to  hook  one  of  Sarah  Macauley's 
dresses  over  her  stouter  waist. 

"Your  sister  didn't  come?"  remarked 
Sarah  politely,  in  the  modulated  voice  that 
her  mother  trained. 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  exclaimed  Mary.  "  She 
was  along  with  the  load.  Why,  where  is 
Persill?" 

This  inquiry  at  once  became  general. 
Priscilla  was  nowhere  in  the  house.  The 
panic-stricken  company  could  not  remem- 
ber seeing  her  since  crossing  the  Feeder. 
They  all  thought  she  returned  to  the  sled 
with  them.  John  Davis  was  sure  he  helped 
heiv  in. 

Theophilus  Gill,  turning  livid  around  the 
edges  of  his  beard,  said  the  horses  might 
have  gone  to  Jericho  for  all  of  him,  and 


18         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

he  'd  'tended  to  Persilla  Thompson  himself 
if  he  had  known  the  rest  of  the  boys  was  n't 
goin'  to.  Priscilla's  sister  began  to  cry 
aloud,  and  such  young  ladies  as  did  not 
accompany  her  gazed  at  each  other  in  pale 
apprehension.  But  Mrs.  Macauley  came 
sternly  to  the  front.  She  would  not  allow 
Mary  Thompson  to  proclaim  that  Priscilla 
was  drowned,  and  Theoph  Gill  had  done  it, 
and  she  forbade  the  party  falling  into  a 
panic. 

Her  son  Martin  had  his  filly  and  sleigh 
ready,  and  while  she  snatched  blankets  and 
brandy,  she  marshaled  forth  such  young 
men  to  form  a  separate  search  party  as 
seemed  suitable  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Macau- 
ley  would  not  have  Priscilla  Thompson 
drowned  in  the  Feeder,  and  left  strict  orders 
on  her  own  offspring  against  any  such  im- 
pression —  which  the  whole  company  obeyed. 
Then  she  got  into  the  sleigh,  and  Mart  gal- 
loped his  filly. 

He  made  but  one  remark  to  his  mother 
during  this  ride. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         19 

"  If  she  'd  come  along  with  us  as  I 
wanted  her  to,  this  would  n't  have  happened, 
mother !  " 

His  face  showed  ghastly  through  the 
dark,  and  his  husky  voice  jarred  the  breast 
of  the  woman  who  bore  him. 

The  sleigh  and  the  sled  containing  the 
young  men  both  stopped  at  that  unused 
bridge  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  Feeder. 
They  all  called  Priscilla's  name,  the  winter 
night's  stillness  magnifying  the  sound.  And 
for  reply  they  had  a  void  of  silence. 

Mart  was  for  dropping  into  the  hole  and 
searching  under  the  ice,  but  his  mother 
sternly  restrained  him.  She  sent  the  young 
men  down  stream,  and  she  walked  across 
the  bridge  with  her  son,  separating  from 
him  afterward  that  they  might  search  the 
woods  in  different  directions. 

Down  the  Feeder,  men's  voices  raised 
melancholy  echoes  —  "  Persilla !  Hoo  -  o  -  o, 
Persil-la  !  Persilla  Thompson !  " 

The  solemn  winter  woods  could  not  daunt 
Mrs.  Macauley.  She  gave  no  nervous  start 


20         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

at  twigs  snapping  under  the  snow-crust,  but 
searched  large  spaces  with  vigor.  It  did 
hurt  her  to  hear  Mart  calling  the  girl  in 
such  a  tone,  and  to  remember  what  he  had 
said  to  his  mother.  In  those  days  people 
weighed  their  words,  and  every  sentence 
meant  something.  Martin's  slight  reproach 
to  Mrs.  Macauley  was  the  first  he  had  ever 
uttered. 

Treading  among  naked  saplings,  with 
now  and  then  a  ghostly  pawpaw  leaf  rus- 
tling against  her  face,  she  came  to  the  bark 
sugar-house,  and  met  Mart  at  its  open  side, 
carrying  Priscilla  in  his  arms.  Priscilla 
was  too  terrified  and  exhausted  to  speak 
aloud,  having  crept  out  of  the  Feeder  as  far 
as  this  shelter.  Icicles  hung  to  her  clothing, 
and  she  had  lost  her  bonnet  and  cloak  cape. 
She  clung  around  Mrs.  Macauley 's  neck, 
crying  like  a  baby,  and  very  unlike  the 
dignified  young  woman  that  her  small  circle 
had  always  considered  her.  Perhaps  this 
softness  had  its  effect  on  a  nature  bent  on 
commanding  and  protecting. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         21 

In  half  an  hour  the  young  folks  at  Ma- 
cauley's  knew  that  Mart's  mother  brought 
Priscilla  home  on  her  lap,  wrapped  in  blan- 
kets, and  dosed  with  brandy  every  few  rods. 
The  searchers  in  the  sled,  arriving  but  little 
later,  said  Priscilla  must  have  been  clear 
under  the  ice  by  the  looks  of  it  where  she 
crept  out.  But  the  Feeder  was  so  shallow 
right  there  that  she  could  walk  on  the  bot- 
tom. 

All  festivity  remained  suspended  while 
the  hostess,  like  some  mysterious  medicine- 
woman,  worked  over  her  patient.  A  few 
groups  in  the  dining-room  played  "  fist'ock," 
and  other  very  mild  sitting  diversions  which 
could  be  suspended  in  an  instant,  the  play- 
ers looking  up  with  concern  to  receive  the 
latest  bulletin  from  Priscilla. 

But  she  recovered  so  rapidly  that  every 
spirit  rose,  as  did  the  general  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Macauley's  skill.  John  Davis  re- 
marked staidly  to  Darius  Macauley  that  he 
believed  Darius's  mother  knew  more  about 
doctorin'  horses,  even,  than  most  of  the 


22         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

horse  doctors  in  the  country,  but  Darius  re- 
plied with  some  grimness,  she  wasn't  settin' 
up  for  that. 

Finally  Priscilla  was  able  to  come  down- 
stairs, holding  to  Mart's  arm,  and  helped  on 
the  other  side  by  his  mother,  and  everybody 
said  they  entered  the  dining-room  like  a 
bridal  couple  about  to  stand  up,  for  she  was 
pale  and  handsome  enough  to  be  a  bride, 
and  he  looked  scared  and  anxious  enough  to 
be  a  groom.  Priscilla  made  the  effort  to 
come  down,  not  only  because  Mrs.  Macauley 
considered  her  sufficiently  restored  to  do  so, 
but  also  because  she  did  not  want  to  check 
the  merriment  of  the  party. 

They  put  her  in  a  large  chair  against  one 
of  the  central  posts,  and  Sarah  Macauley,  as 
soon  as  she  could  catch  breath  for  surprise, 
exclaimed,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all 
around  her,  though  fortunately  not  by  the 
head  of  the  family:  — 

"  Why,  mother !  you  Ve  put  that  flowered 
silk  dress  on  her  that  father  brought  you 
from  Philadelphia  when  he  went  over  the 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         23 

mountains  with  a  drove  of  horses !  You 
said  you  was  goin'  to  save  that  for  the  old- 
est son's  wife." 

The  guests  near  Sarah  looked  significantly 
at  each  other,  and  Miss  Miller,  being  among 
them,  tossed  her  head  and  tittered. 

"  Anybody  who  was  anxious  to  marry 
into  your  family,"  she  remarked  to  Sarah, 
"  ought  to  fall  sick  and  send  for  your  mo- 
ther, and  give  her  all  the  trouble  in  the 
world.  That's  the  surest  way  to  get  her 
consent." 

Miss  Miller  pursed  her  lips.  She  wanted 
to  correct  any  impression  that  she  had  fa- 
vored Mart  Macauley,  and  at  the  same  time 
utter  a  few  strictures. 

"  Yes,  mother 's  a  good  nurse,"  said  Sarah 
innocently. 

"She'll  nurse  you"  whispered  Darius, 
with  a  warning  nudge,  "when  she  hears 
what  you  said  about  that  flowered  silk." 

"  Don't  tell  her,"  begged  his  sister.  "  I  '11 
do  your  share  of  the  milkin'  all  the  rest  of 
the  week,  if  you  won't." 


24         THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

"Well,"  assented  Darius  provisionally, 
"  mebby  I  won't." 

The  flowered  silk  had  been  constructed 
for  Mrs.  Macauley  when  she  was  much  less 
matronly  in  shape  than  on  this  Christmas 
night,  and  by  reason  of  being  put  away  so 
long  had  got  into  fashion  again.  It  was  so 
rich  and  thick  that  it  was  famed  through 
the  neighborhood  as  being  able  to  stand  by 
itself,  but,  having  retired  to  lavender  and 
camphor,  was  not  expected  forth  any  more 
until  the  occasion  of  Mart  Macauley 's  infair 
dinner. 

Priscilla  never  looked  so  pretty  as  she  did 
on  this  Christmas  night.  She  took  no  part 
in  the  plays,  but  they  sold  pawns  over  her 
head,  and  the  penalties  she  inflicted  were 
considered  brilliant. 

"Heavy,  heavy,  what  hangs  over  your 
head !  "  said  John  Davis,  the  seller,  holding 
Miss  Miller's  real  gold  ring.  Her  father 
had  tried  that  ring  with  aquafortis  before 
he  allowed  her  to  buy  it  of  the  peddler. 

"Is  it  fine  or  superfine?  "  inquired  Pris- 
cilla. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP         25 

"  Superfine,"  said  John,  pulling  his  neck- 
erchief with  an  air.  "  What  must  be  done 
to  redeem  it  ?  " 

"  Let  the  owner  make  a  charade." 

This  sent  Miss  Miller,  with  assistants, 
giggling  into  the  pantry.  And  a  grand 
charade  they  exhibited,  for  Miss  Miller  had 
picked  up  such  things  among  the  Lancaster 
young  people,  and  was  not  sorry  to  show 
her  knowledge.  First  the  actors  came  in 
supporting  each  other  and  weeping  aloud. 
In  their  second  act  there  were  several  dumb 
weddings,  and  in  their  third  the  weddings 
were  repeated  with  a  change  of  partners. 
After  long  guessing,  everybody  was  struck 
with  admiration  to  discover  that  the  word 
was  Bal-ti-more. 

Then  John  sold  Martin's  big  handker- 
chief over  Priscilla's  head,  informing  her  it 
was  fine  only.  And  the  possessor  was  bid 
to  bow  to  the  wittiest,  kneel  to  the  prettiest, 
and  kiss  the  one  he  loved  best,  which  Mar- 
tin did,  perambulating  about  the  room  in  a 
long  search,  but  coming  back  to  Priscilla  in 


26          THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

every  instance,  covering  her  with  confusion, 
and  exciting  the  company  to  hilarity. 

Mrs.  Macauley  having  discreetly  retired, 
they  played  "  London  Bridge  is  swept 
away,"  furnishing  the  music  with  their  own 
voices.  The  figures  and  changes  made  it  very 
similar  to  the  "  Virginia  Keel,"  and  Mrs. 
Macauley  would  have  thought  it  sounded 
like  a  dance  had  she  not  known  "  London 
Bridge,"  to  be  an  innocent  marching  play. 

Supper  was  served  at  ten  o'clock,  with 
plates  and  white-handled  knives  and  forks 
held  upon  the  knee,  this  variety  of  refresh- 
ment being  called  a  lap  supper.  The  Ma- 
cauley genius  for  cookery  shone  resplendent. 
Such  cold  meats  and  pickles  and  spiced 
breads,  such  coffee  (made  at  a  neighboring 
house  in  a  wash-boiler,  by  Mrs.  Macauley, 
just  before  she  retired),  such  varieties  of 
cake  and  pie,  such  metheglin  and  root  beer, 
flowed  upon  the  guests  as  only  Macauleys 
knew  how  to  make  and  brew. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  havin'  as  good  a 
time  as  the  rest,"  observed  Philip  Welcham- 


THE  QUEEN   OF  THE  SWAMP         27 

mer  to  Theophilus  Gill,  when  the  plates  were 
being  collected,  and  his  plate  retained  a  pile 
of  scarcely  touched  dainties. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  gittin'  along,  I  'm  gittin'  along," 
said  Theophilus. 

"  You  'pear  kind  o'  sober." 

"  Well,  't  was  a  scare,"  apologized  The- 
ophilus. 

"  But  that 's  all  over  now." 

"  Yes,  it 's  all  over,"  assented  the  black- 
bearded  lover,  with  a  sigh.  And  plucking 
up  animation,  he  added,  "  Mart  has  kind  o' 
took  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  hain't  he  ?  " 

"  He  has  that.  It 's  a  match  now,  if 
Persilla  's  a  mind  to  have  him.  The  old 
lady,  she 's  turned  round  and  set  herself  that 
way  too.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  the 's 
an  infair  to  this  house  by  next  Chris'inas." 

"  No,  neither  would  I,"  said  Theophilus, 
shaking  his  head,  and  making  a  grimace  as 
if  the  action  hurt  him.  He  had  a  stirring, 
money-making  disposition,  while  Mart  Ma- 
cauley's  tastes  were  those  of  a  student,  and 
he  thought  himself  as  good  a  match.  But 


28    THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  SWAMP 

there  was  no  accounting  for  the  tricks  of 
fate. 

Philip  laughed  in  a  heartening  and  sym- 
pathetic fashion. 

"  I  reckon  the'  won't  be  no  chance  for  you 
next  Sunday  night,  nor  any  other  Sunday 
night  this  year,  now,"  he  said. 

"  Mebby  not,"  said  Theophilus.  "  But  if 
Mart  Macauley  gits  her,  he  gits  the  Queen 
of  the  Swamp,  sure  as  you  're  born.  She  'II 
always  be  that,  come  what  will." 


THE  STIRRING-OFF 

TIME,  1850 

DA  vis's  boys  said  to  all  the  young  men  at 
singing-school,  "  Come  over  to  'r  sugar-camp 
Saturday  night ;  we  're  goin'  to  stir  off." 

The  young  men,  sitting  on  the  fence  to 
which  horses  were  tied  in  dusky  rows,  play- 
fully imitated  the  preacher  when  he  gave 
out  appointments,  and  replied  they  would  be 
there,  no  preventing  Providence,  at  early 
candle-lighting. 

Jane  Davis,  attended  by  her  cousin,  also 
circulated  among  the  girls  in  the  school- 
house  during  that  interval  in  singing-school 
called  recess,  and  invited  them  to  the  stir- 
ring-off. 

The  Davises,  though  by  no  means  the  rich- 
est, were  the  most  hospitable  family  in  the 
Swamp.  They  came  from  Virginia.  Their 


30  THE  STIEEING-OFF 

stable  swarmed  with  fine  horses,  each  son 
and  daughter  owning  a  colt ;  and  the  steeds 
of  visiting  neighbors  often  crowded  the  stalls 
until  these  looked  like  a  horse-fair. 

The  Davises  entertained  every  day  in  the 
year.  Their  house  was  unpretending  even 
for  those  times,  being  of  unpainted  wood, 
with  a  bedroom  at  each  side  of  the  porch,  a 
sitting-room  where  guns  and  powder-horns 
hung  over  the  fireplace,  a  kitchen,  and  a 
loft.  Yet  here  sojourned  relations  from 
other  counties,  and  even  from  over  the  moun- 
tains. Here  on  Christmas  and  New  Year's 
days  were  made  great  turkey-roasts.  Out 
of  it  issued  Jane  Davis  to  the  dances  and 
parties  where  she  was  a  belle,  and  her  bro- 
thers, ruddy,  huge-limbed,  black-eyed,  and 
dignified  as  any  young  men  in  Fairfield 
County. 

They  kept  bees,  and  raised  what  were 
called  noble  turnips.  Their  farm  appeared 
to  produce  solely  for  the  use  of  guests.  In 
watermelon  season  they  kept  what  might  be 


THE  STIERING-OFF  31 

termed  open  field.  Their  cookery  was  cele- 
brated, and  their  cordiality  as  free  as  sun- 
shine. No  unwelcome  guest  could  alight  at 
Davis's.  The  head  of  the  family,  Uncle 
Davis  was  a  "  general,"  and  this  title  car- 
ried as  much  social  weight  as  that  of  judge. 
About  their  premises  hung  an  atmosphere 
of  unending  good  times.  On  Sunday  after- 
noons late  in  November  all  the  raw  young 
men  of  the  neighborhood  drew  in  a  circle  to 
Davis's  fireplace,  scraping  turnips  or  apples. 
Now  the  steel  knives  moved  in  concert,  and 
now  they  jarred ;  the  hollow  wall  of  a  tur- 
nip protested  against  the  scrape,  and  Aunt 
Davis  passed  the  heaping  pan  again.  Or 
cracked  walnuts  and  hickory  nuts  were  the 
offerings.  Then  every  youth  sat  with  an 
overflowing  handkerchief  on  his  lap,  and  the 
small  blade  of  his  knife  busy  with  the  ker- 
nels,—  backlog  and  forestick  being  bom- 
barded with  shells  which  burned  in  blue  and 
crimson. 

So  when  the  Davises  were  ready  to  stir 


32  THE  STIBR1NG-OFF 

off  in  their  sugar-camp,  it  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  for  them  to  in- 
vite their  neighbors  to  come  and  eat  the 
sugar,  and  for  their  neighbors  to  come  and 
do  so. 

The  camp  threw  its  shine  far  among  leaf- 
less trees.  Three  or  four  iron  kettles 
steamed  on  a  pole  over  the  fire.  In  a  bark 
lodge  near  by,  Aunt  Davis  had  put  a  lunch 
of  pies  and  cakes  before  she  went  home,  to 
be  handed  around  at  the  stirring-off.  It 
was  a  clear  starry  night,  the  withered  sod 
crisp  underfoot  with  the  stiffness  of  ice. 
Any  group  approaching  silently  could  hear 
the  tapped  maples  dripping  a  liquid  noc- 
turne into  trough  or  pan. 

But  scarcely  any  groups  approached 
silently.  They  were  heard  chatting  in  the 
open  places,  and  their  calls  raised  echoes. 

John  and  Eck  Davis  had  collected  logs 
and  chunks  and  spread  robes  and  blankets 
until  the  seating  capacity  of  the  camp  was 
nearly  equal  to  that  of  George's  Chapel. 


THE  STIRRING- OFF  33 

Some  of  the  girls  took  off  their  wraps  and 
hung  them  in  the  bark  house.  One  couple 
carried  away  a  bucket  for  more  sugar-water 
to  cool  a  kettle,  and  other  couples  sauntered 
after  them.  There  were  races  on  the  spongy 
dead  leaves,  and  sudden  squalls  of  remon- 
strance. 

Jane  Davis  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  com- 
pany, moving  a  long  wooden  stirrer  in  the  ket- 
tle about  to  sugar-off.  Though  her  beauty 
was  neither  brown  nor  white,  nor,  in  fact, 
positive  beauty  of  any  kind,  it  cajoled  every- 
body. Her  hair  was  folded  close  to  her 
cheeks.  There  was  innocent  audacity  in  the 
curving  line  of  every  motion  she  made. 
The  young  men  were  so  taken  by  the  spell 
of  her  grace  that  she  was  accused  of  being 
unrighteously  engaged  to  three  at  once,  and 
about  to  add  her  cousin  Tom  Randall  to  the 
list. 

Tom  Randall  was  a  Virginian,  spending 
the  winter  in  Ohio.  He  was  handsome, 
merry  as  Mercutio,  and  so  easy  in  his  man- 


34  THE  STIRRING-OFF 

ners  that  the  Swamp  youths  watched  him 
with  varying  emotions.  He  brought  his 
songs  over  the  mountains :  one  celebrated 
the  swiftness  of  the  electric  telegraph  in 
flashing  news  from  Baltimore  to  Wheeling ; 
another  was  about  a  Quaker  courtship,  and 
set  all  the  Swamp  girls  to  rattling  the  lady's 
brisk  response,  — 

"  What  care  I  for  your  rings  or  money,  — 
Faddle-a-ding,  a-ding,  a-day ; 
I  want  a  man  that  will  call  me  honey,  — 
Faddle-a-ding,  a-ding,  a-day  !  " 

Tom  Randall  sat  close  to  the  fire,  hanging 
his  delicate  hands,  which  had  never  done  a 
day's  chopping,  over  his  knees.  He  looked 
much  of  a  gentleman,  Nora  Waddell  re- 
marked aside  to  Philip  Welchammer.  To 
all  the  girls  he  was  a  central  figure,  as  Jane 
was  a  central  figure  to  the  young  men. 

But  Philip  claimed  that  Virginians  were 
no  nearer  perfection  than  out-and-out  Swamp 
fellows. 

"  I  did  n't  say  he  was  a   perfect  gentle 


THE  STIRRING-OFF  35 

man,"  said  Nora,  with  cautious  moderation, 
"  for  I  would  n't  say  so  of  any  man." 

"He  ain't  proud,"  admitted  Philip. 
"  He 's  free  to  talk  with  everybody." 

"  Humph !  "  remarked  Mary  Thompson, 
sitting  at  the  other  side  of  Philip ;  "  he 
ought  to  be.  Folks  in  Georger  Chapel 
neighborhood  is  just  as  good  as  anybody." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  know  he  ain't  a  pret- 
tier dancer  than  Jane,"  sighed  Nora,  whose 
folks  would  not  allow  her  to  indulge  in  the 
godless  motion  which  the  music  of  a  fiddle 
inspires.  While  Jane  stirred  and  chatted, 
she  was  swaying  and  taking  dance-steps,  as 
if  unable  to  refrain  from  spinning  away 
through  the  trees.  In  this  great  woods 
drawing-room,  where  so  many  were  gathered, 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  hear  any  com- 
ment that  went  on. 

"Jane  makes  a  good  appearance  on  the 
floor,"  responded  Philip,  who,  being  male, 
could  withstand  the  general  denunciations 
of  the  preacher  and  his  mother's  praying  at 


36  THE  STIEEING-OFF 

him  in  meeting.  "  I  like  to  lead  her  out  to 
dance." 

"  Uncle  and  Aunt  Davis  are  just  as  easy 
with  Jane  as  if  they  wasn't  perfessors  of 
religion,"  sighed  Nora  Waddell. 

"  And  their  boys  thinks  so  much  of  her," 
added  Mary  Thompson.  "John  can't  go 
anywhere  unless  she  ties  his  neck-han'ket- 
cher  for  him.  I  've  knowed  him,  when  Jane 
was  sick,  to  come  and  lean  over  her  to  get 
it  fixed." 

"  If  she  's  to  leave  them,"  said  Philip,  "  I 
wonder  how  they  'd  do  without  her  ?  " 

"  She 's  goin'  to  marry  Cousin  Jimmy 
Thompson,  that  I  know,"  said  Mary. 

"  She 's  engaged  to  Dr.  Miller  in  Lancas- 
ter," insisted  Nora.  "  I  Ve  saw  voluntines 
he 's  sent  her." 

"  Dick  Hanks  thinks  he  's  goin'  to  get 
her,"  laughed  Philip.  "  He  told  me  she 's 
as  good  as  promised  him.  And  Dick's  a 
good  feller,  if  he  was  n't  such  a  coward." 

"  I  don't  believe  Jane   wants   anybody," 


THE  STIREING-OFF  37 

said  Nora  Waddell.     "  She  's  light-minded, 

• 
and  likes  to  enjoy  herself." 

Dick  Hanks  stood  by  Jane  and  insisted 
on  helping  her  to  move  the  stirrer.  His 
hair  inclosed  his  head  in  the  shape  of  a 
thatch,  leaving  but  narrow  eaves  of  forehead 
above  his  eyebrows,  though  his  expression 
was  open  and  amiable.  He  looked  like  one 
of  Bewick's  cuts  of  an  English  carter.  The 
Hankses,  however,  were  a  rich  family,  and, 
in  spite  of  their  eccentricities,  a  power  in  the 
county.  Old  Jimmy  Hanks  so  dreaded  the 
grave  that  he  had  a  marble  vault  hewed, 
watching  its  progress  for  years,  and  get- 
ting himself  ready  to  occupy  it  a  few  weeks 
after  its  completion.  Lest  he  should  be 
buried  alive,  his  will  decreed  that  the  vault 
should  be  unlocked  and  the  coffin  examined 
at  intervals.  The  sight  of  a  face  floating  in 
alcohol  and  spotted  with  drops  from  the 
metal  casket  not  proving  grateful  to  his 
heirs,  the  key  was  soon  conveniently  lost. 

His  son  Dick,  hearty  in  love  and  friend- 


38  THE  STIRRING-OFF 

ship  and  noble  in  brawn,  so  feared  the  dark 
that  he  would  not  go  into  an  unlighted 
room.  When  left  by  himself  at  the  parting 
of  roads  after  a  night's  frolic,  he  galloped 
his  horse  through  brush  and  mire,  and  it 
was  told  that  he  had  more  than  once  reached 
home  without  a  whole  stitch  to  his  back. 

But  in  spite  of  the  powers  of  darkness, 
Dick  was  anxious  to  take  Jane  Davis  under 
his  protection.  The  fire  and  the  noisy  com- 
pany kept  him  from  lifting  his  eyes  to  the 
treetops  swaying  slowly  overhead,  and  the 
lonesome  stars.  All  through  the  woods  win- 
ter-night sounds  and  sudden  twig  cracklings 
could  be  heard.  Dick,  however,  meant  to 
take  Jane  Davis  home,  whether  he  could 
persuade  one  of  the  Davis  boys  to  go  home 
with  him  afterward  or  not. 

In  those  days  neighborhoods  were  intensely 
local.  The  people  knew  what  historians 
have  not  yet  learned  about  the  value  of 
isolated  bits  of  human  life.  These  young 
folks  in  the  sugar-camp  knew  nothing  of 


THE  STIEEING-OFF  39 

the  events  and  complications  of  the  great 
world,  but  they  all  felt  more  or  less  inter- 
ested in  the  politics  of  Jane  Davis's  entan- 
glements. 

Her  brother  kept  dipping  a  long  spoon 
into  the  kettle  she  stirred,  and  dropping  the 
liquid  into  a  tin  cup  of  cold  sugar-water. 
As  long  as  the  hot  stuff  twined  about  in 
ropy  arms,  it  was  syrup ;  but  as  soon  as  it 
settled  to  the  bottom  in  a  clear  mass,  it  was 
wax,  and  the  change  from  wax  to  the  grain 
of  sugar  is  a  sudden  one. 

When  Eck  Davis  announced,  "  It 's 
waxed,"  the  kettle  was  slung  off  in  haste, 
and  everybody  left  the  tree  which  had 
propped  his  back,  or  the  robe  on  which  he 
had  leaned,  and  the  graining  sugar  was 
served  in  saucers  and  handed  around.  It 
could  be  eaten  with  spoons  or  "worked" 
into  crackling  ropes.  Davis's  boys  took  off 
the  syrup  kettles  and  covered  them  up  in 
the  bark  lodge.  They  would  be  emptied 
into  stone  jars  when  the  more  important 


40  THE  STIERING-OFF 

business  of  entertaining  company  was  over. 
The  fire  now  shone  redder.  Jane  was  cut- 
ting up  pies  and  cakes  in  the  bark  house, 
all  this  warm  light  focused  on  her  lowered 
eyelids,  when  more  of  her  suitors  arrived. 

"I  knowed  the  entire  posse  would  be 
out,"  said  Philip  Welchammer  in  a  laughing 
undertone  to  the  girls  sitting  beside  him. 
"  Davises  never  misses  invitin'  anybody." 

"  You  're  too  late,  Jimmy  Thompson," 
called  Jane's  elder  brother  before  he  noticed 
the  preacher  was  in  the  party.  "  Your 
sheer's  e't."  When,  however,  Dr.  Miller 
from  Lancaster  also  came  forward,  John 
stood  up  stiffly  and  put  on  his  company 
grandeur.  He  held  the  town-man  in  some 
awe,  and  was  bound  to  be  constrained  by 
the  preacher. 

Jimmy  Thompson,  having  met  Jane  with 
awkward  heartiness,  said  he  would  make  the 
young  folks  acquainted  with  Brother  Gurley. 
They  all  knew  Brother  Gurley ;  but  Jimmy 
was  a  wild  young  man,  and  his  audacity  in 


THE  STIEEING-OFF  41 

"  brother  "-ing  the  preacher  was  more  deli- 
cious than  home-made  sugar.  He  afterward 
explained  that  the  preacher  had  been  turned 
onto  the  old  folks  for  Sunday,  and  he  asked 
him  along  to  the  frolic  without  suspicionin' 
he  'd  come,  but  the  preacher,  he  took  a-holt 
as  if  that  was  the  understandin'. 

Jane  met  Brother  Gurley  and  Dr.  Miller 
with  equal  ease.  A  hush  fell  upon  the  com- 
pany, and  they  ate  and  watched  her  serve 
the  newcomers  and  appear  to  balance  such 
formidable  individuals  in  her  hands.  Affec- 
tation was  in  that  region  the  deadliest  sin  a 
girl  could  commit  against  her  own  popular- 
ity, and  Jane's  manner  was  always  beauti- 
fully simple. 

The  preacher  had  a  clean-shaven,  large 
face,  huge  blue  eyes,  and  laughing  white 
teeth,  and  a  sprinkling  of  fine,  indefinitely 
tinted  hair.  His  figure  was  vigorous,  and 
well  made  to  bear  the  hardships  of  a  Meth- 
odist circuit-rider.  His  presence  had  the 
grasp  of  good-fellowship  and  power,  and 


42  THE  STIRRING-OFF 

rather  dwarfed  Dr.  Miller,  whom  all  the 
girls  thought  a  very  pretty  man.  Dr.  Miller 
wore  side-whiskers,  and  a  Lancaster  suit  of 
clothes  finished  by  a  fine  round  cloak  hooked 
under  his  chin.  When  he  took  off  his  hat 
to  bow,  two  curls  fell  over  his  forehead. 
The  woman  who  would  not  take  Dr.  Miller 
if  he  wanted  her  must  expect  to  have  the 
pick  of  creation,  and  maybe  she  would  miss 
it  after  all.  He  talked  to  Jane  and  ate 
maple  sugar  with  the  greatest  of  Lancaster 
ease,  telling  her  he  had  put  up  with  his  cou- 
sin in  Millersport  and  borrowed  a  horse  to 
ride  to  camp.  John  Davis  at  once  said  the 
folks  at  home  expected  him  to  put  up  with 
them  over  Sunday,  and  the  other  young 
men  resented  the  doctor's  prompt  acceptance 
of  Davis' s  hospitality. 

The  preacher,  holding  his  saucer  of  sugar 
in  his  left  hand,  was  going  around  and  giv- 
ing the  right  hand  of  fellowship  to  every 
young  person  in  camp.  This  was  the  proper 
and  customary  thing  for  him  to  do.  A 


THE  STIEEING-OFF  43 

preacher  who  went  into  company  anywhere 
on  the  circuit  without  shaking  hands  and 
pushing  and  strengthening  his  acquaintance 
would  be  a  worse  stumbling-block  than  a 
backslider  given  up  to  superfluous  clothing 
and  all  kinds  of  sinful  levity,  or  a  new 
convert  with  artificials  in  her  bonnet.  But 
there  was  a  tingling  quality  in  Brother 
Gurley's  grasp  which  stirred  the  blood; 
and  his  heavy  voice  was  as  prevailing  in  its 
ordinary  tones  as  in  the  thunders  of  the 
pulpit. 

"  Did  you  bring  your  wife  with  you,  Bro- 
ther Gurley  ?  "  simpered  Tabitha  Gill,  a 
dwarfish,  dark  old  maid,  devout  in  church 
and  esteemed  for  her  ability  to  make  a  good 
prayer. 

Mary  Thompson  whispered  behind  her 
back,  "  Tabitha  Gill's  always  for  findin'  out 
whether  a  preacher 's  married  or  not  before 
anybody  else  does." 

"  Not  this  time,"  replied  Brother  Gurley, 
warming  Sister  Gill's  heart  with  a  broad, 


44  THE  STIREING-OFF 

class-meeting  smile.  "  But  I  expect  to  bring 
her  with  me  when  I  come  around  again." 

"Do,"  said  Tabitha ;  "and  stop  at  our 
house." 

"  I  'm  obliged  to  you,  Sister  Gill,"  replied 
the  preacher.  "  You  have  a  fine  community 
of  young  people  here." 

"But  they  ain't  none  of  'em  converted. 
There  's  a  good  deal  of  levity  in  Georger 
Chapel  neighborhood.  Now,  Jane,  now,  — 
Jane  Davis,  —  she  's  a  girl  nobody  can  help 
likin',  but  many 's  the  night  that  she 's 
danced  away  in  sinful  amusement.  I  wish 
you'd  do  somethiii'  for  her  soul,  Brother 
Gurley." 

"  I  '11  try,"  responded  the  preacher  heart- 
ily. He  looked  with  a  tender  and  indulgent 
eye  at  Jane,  who  was  dividing  her  company 
into  two  parts,  to  play  one  innocent  play 
before  the  camp  broke  up. 

"  Come  away  from  here,"  whispered  Philip 
Welchammer  to  the  girl  beside  him,  seced- 
ing from  the  preacher's  group  and  adding 


THE  STIERING-OFF  45 

himself  to  Jane's.  "  Tabitha  Gill  will  be 
haulin'  us  all  up  to  the  mourners'  bench 
pretty  soon." 

They  played  "  clap-out,"  the  girls  sitting 
in  their  wraps  all  ready  to  depart,  and  the 
young  men  turning  up  their  collars  and  tying 
on  their  comforters  while  waiting  a  sum- 
mons. Jane  was  leader,  and  with  much  tit- 
tering and  secrecy  each  young  lady  imparted 
to  Jane  the  name  of  the  youth  she  wished  to 
have  sit  beside  her.  Dick  Hanks  was  called 
first,  and  he  stood  looking  at  the  array  from 
which  he  could  take  but  one  choice,  his  lips 
dropping  apart  and  his  expression  like  that 
he  used  to  display  under  the  dunce-cap  at 
Gum  College.  During  this  interval  of  si- 
leiice  the  drip  of  sugar-water  into  troughs 
played  a  musical  phrase  or  two,  and  the 
stirring  and  whinnying  of  the  horses  could 
be  heard  where  they  were  tied  to  saplings. 
No  rural  Ohioan  ever  walked  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  if  he  had  any  kind  of  beast  or  convey- 
ance to  carry  him. 


46  THE  STIREING-OFF 

Then  Dick  of  course  sat  down  by  the 
wrong  girl,  and  was  clapped  out,  and  Dr. 
Miller  was  called.  Dr.  Miller  made  a  pleas- 
ing impression  by  hesitating  all  along  the 
line,  and  when  he  sat  down  by  Mary 
Thompson  her  murmur  of  assent  was  a  trib- 
ute to  his  sagacity.  Cousin  Tom  Randall 
was  summoned,  and  sung  two  or  three  lines 
of  the  "  Quaker's  Courtship  "  before  throw- 
ing himself  on  the  mercy  of  Nora  Waddell. 
He  was  clapped  out,  and  said  he  always  ex- 
pected it.  West  of  the  Alleghanies  was  no 
place  for  him ;  they  were  even  goin'  to  clap 
him  out  up  at  uncle's.  Then  the  preacher 
came  smiling  joyfully,  and  placed  himself  by 
Tabitha  Gill,  where  he  was  tittered  over  and 
allowed  to  remain ;  and  one  by  one  the  seats 
were  filled,  the  less  fortunate  men  making 
a  second  trial  with  more  success  when  their 
range  was  narrowed. 

Everybody  rose  up  to  go  home.  But  a 
great  many  "  good-nights,"  and  reproaches 
for  social  neglect,  and  promises  of  future 


THE  STIBEING-OFF  47 

devotion  to  each  other,  had  first  to  be  ex- 
changed. Then  Jimmy  Thompson,  who  had 
driven  in  his  buggy  expressly  to  take  Jane 
Davis  home,  and  was  wondering  what  he 
should  do  with  the  preacher,  saw  with  aston- 
ishment that  Brother  Gurley  had  Jane  upon 
his  own  arm  and  was  tucking  her  shawl  close 
to  her  chin.  Her  black  eyes  sparkled 
within  a  scarlet  hood.  She  turned  about 
with  Brother  Gurley,  facing  all  the  young 
associates  of  her  life,  and  said,  "  We  want 
you  all  to  come  to  our  house  after  preachin' 
to-morrow.  The  presidin'  elder  will  be 
there." 

"  I  don't  care  nothin'  about  the  presidin' 
elder,"  muttered  Jimmy  Thompson. 

"  Goin'  to  be  a  weddin',  you  know,"  ex- 
plained John  Davis,  turning  from  assisting 
his  brother  Eck  to  empty  the  syrup  kettles, 
and  beaming  warmly  over  such  a  general 
occasion.  "  The  folks  at  meeting  will  all 
be  invited,  but  Jane  said  she  wanted  to  ask 
the  young  people  separate  to-night." 


48  THE  STIEEING-OFF 

"  And  next  time  I  come  around  the  cir- 
cuit," said  Brother  Gurley,  gathering  Jane's 
hand  in  his  before  the  company,  "  I  '11  bring 
my  wife  with  me." 

They  walked  away  from  the  campfire, 
Jane  turning  her  head  once  or  twice  to  call 
"  Good-night,  all,"  as  if  she  still  clung  to 
every  companionable  hand.  The  party 
watched  her  an  instant  in  silence.  Perhaps 
some  were  fanciful  enough  to  see  her  walk- 
ing away  from  the  high  estate  of  a  doctor's 
wife  in  Lancaster,  from  the  Hanks  money, 
and  Jimmy  Thompson's  thrift,  into  the  con- 
stant change  and  unfailing  hardships  of 
Methodist  itinerancy.  The  dancing  motion 
would  disappear  from  her  gait,  and  she  who 
had  tittered  irreverently  at  her  good  mother's 
labors  with  backsliders  at  the  mourners' 
bench  would  come  to  feel  an  interest  in  such 
sinners  herself. 

"  Dog  'd  if  I  thought  Jane  Davis  would 
ever  marry  a  preacher ! "  burst  out  Jimmy 
Thompson,  in  sudden  and  hot  disapproval. 


THE  STIREING-OFF  49 

"  Don't  it  beat  all !  "  murmured  Tabitha 
Gill.  "  And  her  an  unconverted  woman  in 
the  error  of  her  ways !  Jane 's  too  young 
for  a  preacher's  wife." 

*  "  Jane  's  fooled  us  all,"  owned  Philip 
Welchammer  heartily.  To  keep  intended 
nuptials  a  family  secret  until  a  day  or  a  few 
hours  before  the  appointed  time  was  as  much 
a  custom  of  the  country  as  was  prying  into 
and  spying  out  such  affairs.  Surprising  her 
friends  by  her  wedding  was,  therefore,  add- 
ing to  Jane's  social  successes ;  but  only  Dr. 
Miller  could  perceive  her  true  reason  for 
assembling  her  suitors  at  the  last  moment. 
While  discarding  them  all,  her  hospitable 
nature  clung  to  their  friendship  ;  she  wished 
to  tell  them  in  a  group  the  change  she  con- 
templated, so  that  no  one  could  accuse  her 
of  superior  kindness  to  another.  Her  very 
cruelties  were  intended  mercies. 

"That's  the  way  the  pretty  girls  go," 
sighed  Cousin  Tom  Randall,  seizing  hold  of 
Jane's  younger  brother  :  "  the  preachers  get 


50  THE  STIREING-OFF 

'em.  Come  on,  Eck ;  I  have  to  be  helped 
home." 

"  I  don't  see  when  he  courted  her," 
breathed  Dick  Hanks,  closing  his  lips  after 
many  efforts. 

"  Preachers  is  chain -lightnin',"  laughed 
Jimmy  Thompson.  "  He 's  been  around 
often  enough,  and  always  stoppin'  there." 

"  To-morrow  after  preachin',"  said  John 
impressively,  as  he  came  forward  after  has- 
tily covering  the  jars.  "  We  're  goin'  to 
have  a  turkey-dinner,  and  we  want  you  all  to 
be  sure  to  come.  And  next  time  Brother 
Gurley  and  Jane  makes  the  circuit,  we  '11 
have  the  infair  at  our  house,  too." 

"  That 's  just  like  Davises,"  exclaimed  one 
of  the  dispersing  group  in  the  midst  of  their 
eager  promises ;  "  they  would  n't  be  satisfied 
unless  they  give  the  weddin'  and  the  infair 
both,  and  invited  all  quarterly  meetin'  to  set 
down  to  the  table.  I  thought  there  was 
doin  's  over  at  their  house ;  but  then  they  're 
always  bakin'  and  fussin'." 


THE  STIREING-OFF  51 

They  could  all  picture  a  turkey-roast  at 
Da  vis's :  the  crisp,  brown  turkeys  rising 
from  their  own  dripping,  squares  of  pone  as 
yellow  as  buttercups,  and  biscuits  calculated 
to  melt  whitely  with  honey  from  glass  dishes 
of  sweet-smelling  combs.  There  would  be 
every  kind  of  vegetable  grown  in  the  Swamp, 
and  game  from  the  banks  of  the  Feeder  and 
Eeservoir,  pies  and  cakes  and  coffee,  and  at 
least  eight  kinds  of  preserves.  Jane  Davis 
and  the  preacher  would  stand  up  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  and  after  the  ceremony  there 
would  be  a  constant  rattle  of  jokes  from  the 
presiding  elder  and  his  assistants.  And 
over  the  whole  house  would  hang  that  happy 
atmosphere  which  makes  one  think  of  corn 
ripening  on  a  sunny  hillside  in  still  Septem- 
ber weather.  A  dozen  times  the  long  tables 
would  be  replenished  and  supplied  with 
plates,  all  the  usual  features  of  a  turkey- 
roast  at  Davis's  being  exaggerated  by  the 
importance  of  the  occasion  ;  and  Aunt  Davis 
would  now  and  then  forget  to  urge  a  guest, 


52  THE  STIREING-OFF 

while  she  hurriedly  wiped  her  eyes  and 
replied  to  some  expression  of  neighborly 
sympathy,  that  they  had  to  lose  Jane  some 
time,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  for  a  girl  to 
get  a  religious  man.  Then  about  dusk  the 
preachers  and  their  congregation  would  start 
again  to  chapel,  and  Jane,  in  Millersport 
clothes,  would  shine  on  the  front  seats  as  a 
bride,  certain  of  an  ovation  when  the  after- 
meeting  handshaking  came.  It  would  be  a 
spite  if  she  sat  where  tallow  candles  could 
drip  on  her  from  one  of  the  wooden  chan- 
deliers, but  she  would  enjoy  hearing  her 
bridegroom  exhort,  and  he  would  feel  like 
exhorting  with  all  his  might. 

"Well,  Doc,"  said  John  Davis,  turning 
from  the  deserted  camp  and  sinking  fire  to 
place  himself  by  the  bridle  of  the  young 
man  from  Lancaster. 

"  No,"  answered  Dr.  Miller,  "  I  'm  obliged 
to  you,  John ;  but  I  '11  ride  back  to  Millers- 
port  to-night." 

"  You  don't  feel  put  out  ?  "  urged  John, 


THE  STIEBING-OFF  53 

conscious  of  a  pang  because  all  the  good 
fellows  who  courted  Jane  could  not  become 
his  brothers-in-law. 

"  No ;  oh,  no,"  protested  Dr.  Miller  with 
chagrin.  "  She  'd  a  right  to  suit  herself. 
I  '11  be  around  some  other  day." 

"  We  'd  take  it  hard  if  you  did  n't,"  said 
John. 

"  But  just  now,"  concluded  the  doctor, 
"I  feel  what  a  body  might  call  —  stirred- 
off." 

Dick  Hanks  was  riding  up  close  to  Jimmy 
Thompson,  while  Jimmy  unblanketed  his 
mare  and  prepared  for  a  deliberate  depar- 
ture. 

"John,  now,"  remarked  Jimmy,  —  "he 
brothered  the  preacher  right  up,  did  n't  he  ? 
They  '11  be  makin'  a  class-leader  o'  John  yet, 
if  they  can  git  him  to  quit  racin'  horses." 

"  Which  way  you  goin'  home,  Jimmy  ?  " 
inquired  Dick  Hanks  anxiously. 

"  The  long  way,  round  by  Georger  Chapel, 
where  I  can  look  at  the  tombstones  for  com- 


54  THE  STIEEING-OFF 

pany.  Want  to  go  along?  We  can  talk 
over  the  weddin',  and  you  're  only  two  mile 
from  home  at  our  woods'  gate." 

"  I  guess  I  '11  take  the  short  cut  through 
the  brush,"  said  Dick. 

Jimmy  drove  through  the  clearing  and 
fence-gap,  where  John  Davis  was  waiting  to 
lay  up  the  rails  again. 

"What's  that?"  said  John,  and  they 
both  paused  to  listen. 

It  was  a  sound  of  crashing  and  scamper- 
ing, of  smothered  exclamation  and  the  rasp- 
ing and  tearing  of  garments.  Dick  Hanks 
was  whipping  his  steed  through  the  woods, 
against  trees,  logs,  and  branches,  as  if 
George's  Chapel  graveyard,  containing  the 
ghastly  vault  of  his  father,  and  George's 
Chapel  preacher,  waving  Jane  Davis  in  one 
victorious  hand,  were  both  in  merciless  pur- 
suit of  him. 


SWEETNESS 

TIME,  1855 

AMBER  light  in  the  dense  Ohio  woods  re- 
ceded slowly  from  the  path  which  a  woman 
ascended.  The  earth  was  frozen,  and  glazed 
puddles  stood  in  cow  tracks.  But  this  wo- 
man loved  to  climb  from  the  valley  farms 
and  her  day's  sewing,  of  chill  December 
evenings,  and  feel  that  she  approached  her 
heaven  and  left  the  world  behind.  The  year 
had  just  passed  its  shortest  day.  Neighbor- 
hood custom  allowed  her  to  leave  her  tasks 
early  in  the  evening,  because  she  came  to 
•  them  with  a  lantern  in  the  morning.  She 
hastened  as  you  may  have  noticed  a  large- 
eyed  anxious  cow  cantering  toward  its  nurs- 
ling ;  but  stopped  to  breathe,  half  ashamed 
of  herself,  in  sight  of  a  log-house  known 
through  the  Rocky  Fork  settlement  as 
Coon's. 


56  SWEETNESS 

All  the  Coons  had  been  queer  little  peo- 
ple, but  this  last  daughter  of  them  exceeded 
her  forefathers  in  squatty  squareness  of  stat- 
ure and  Japanese  cast  of  feature.  As  she 
was  quite  thirty-five  her  friends  called  her 
an  old  maid,  according  to  the  custom  of  that 
remote  period.  Yet  there  was  not  a  girl  on 
all  the  windings  of  the  Rocky  Fork  who  had 
more  laughter  in  her  eyes,  or  smoother 
cheeks,  or  darker  polished  hair. 

"  Sure  's  my  name  is  Wilda  Coon,"  said 
the  small  woman  beneath  her  breath,  "yon- 
der comes  Lanson  Bundle." 

The  man  she  saw  was  yet  far  off,  plodding 
across  the  valley  toward  her  hillside ;  and  as 
he  had  taken  that  walk  nearly  every  evening 
for  a  dozen  years,  it  should  have  ceased  to 
surprise  her.  Yet  as  shadows  thickened  * 
among  rock  and  naked  treea,  it  was  always 
a  satisfaction  to  turn  and  look  back  from 
that  particular  point  and  exclaim,  "  Yonder 
comes  Lanson  Bundle  !  " 

Wilda' s    log-house    had   a    clearing    and 


SWEETNESS  57 

some  acres  of  trees  around  it,  standing  like 
a  German  principality  or  an  oasis  in  the 
midst  of  Alanson  Bundle's  great  farm.  The 
Bundles  had  vainly  tried  in  times  past  to 
buy  out  the  Coons.  But  Alanson  had  other 
views.  He  had  courted  Wilda  twelve  years, 
and  he  calculated  in  time  to  wear  her  out. 
She  could  not  go  on  forever  raising  patches 
of  truck  in  the  summer,  and  quilting  and 
sewing  in  the  winter. 

Alanson  was  not  uncomfortable  while  he 
waited.  His  aunt  kept  house  for  him  at  his 
homestead,  where  he  had  several  barns,  a 
milk-house,  a  smoke-house  and  all  modern 
conveniences  around  him.  He  felt  his  value 
with  everybody  but  Wilda.  The  youngest 
girls  showed  him  no  discouragement.  There 
was  a  sonorous  pomp  about  his  singing  in 
meeting  which  affected  every  rural  nature, 
while  his  Adam's  apple,  like  a  sensitive 
lump  of  mercury,  trembled  up  and  down  its 
inclosure.  Some  folks  thought  Alanson 
Bundle  ought  to  have  been  a  preacher.  He 


58  SWEETNESS 

would  look  so  nice  standing  in  a  pulpit,  with 
his  hair  sleeked  up  in  a  straight  roach,  say- 
ing, "  Hence  we  discover,  my  brethren." 
But  Wilda  Coon  never  had  made  any  fuss 
over  him.  And  for  that  reason  he  followed 
her  with  abject  service. 

In  that  early  year  of  the  fifties  a  great 
many  people  about  the  Rocky  Fork  had 
locks  on  their  doors.  But  a  tow  latch-string 
hung  out  for  Wilda  Coon,  and  with  it  she 
lifted  the  wooden  latch  of  her  dwelling.  At 
night,  for  security,  she  would  draw  the  string 
inside,  and  slip  a  wooden  bar  into  staples 
across  the  thick  board  portal. 

The  tight-chinked  cabin  had  the  strangest 
interior  on  the  Rocky  Fork.  There  was 
only  one  room,  and  the  hollow  of  the  roof 
rose  up  in  a  cavernous  arch  without  joists. 
Two  wooden  bars  were,  indeed,  set  high 
across  one  corner,  but  they  served  as  roosts 
for  chickens  who  had  already  taken  to  them 
for  the  night,  and  who  stirred  quavering  as 
Wilda  shut  the  door  and  emptied  a  gourd. 


SWEETNESS  59 

Before  the  fire,  yet  not  too  near  it,  was  a 
trundle-bed  which  could  be  pushed  anywhere 
on  wheels. 

She  dropped  her  hood  and  shawl  upon  a 
chair  and  slipped  toward  the  trundle-bed, 
motioning  back  a  great  mastiff  who  kept 
guard  at  the  hearth.  He  sat  down  again 
and  licked  his  lips;  the  glory  of  burning 
logs  in  the  fireplace  was  enough  to  content 
any  dog,  for  that  cabin  seemed  to  have  the 
sunset  imprisoned  within  it.  Calico  curtains 
on  the  four-paned  windows  hid  darkening 
woods  outside. 

"  O  Sweetness !  "  whispered  Wilda,  bend- 
ing over  the  trundle-bed  and  scarcely  daring 
to  touch  the  patchwork  quilt.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  kisses  and  fondling  for  her  only 
baby,  the  helpless  being  who  reversed  for 
her  the  maternal  relations.  It  was  a  little 
old  woman,  whose  apple  face  had  shriveled 
into  puckers  only  around  the  corners  of  the 
eyes  and  mouth.  A  dimity  nightcap  tied  it 
x  in,  almost  covering  white  silk  threads  of 


60  SWEETNESS 

hair.  This  helpless  mother,  lying  in  the 
dead  alive  state  we  now  call  paralysis,  and 
the  Rocky  Forkers  then  called  palsy,  was 
the  secret  delight  of  Wilda's  heart,  and 
Alanson  Bundle's  only  rival.  But  she  con- 
cealed her  fondness  like  a  crime.  The  name 
of  Sweetness  was  sacred  to  that  hollow 
cabin.  Bounce  could  make  no  remark  about 
it,  and  he  was  the  only  safe  auditor  in  an 
age  when  excess  of  loving  was  considered 
weakness. 

Wilda  hung  her  supper  kettles  on  the 
hooks  of  the  crane,  and  made  biscuits,  and 
raked  out  coals  to  bake  them  in  a  Dutch 
oven,  Alanson  Bundle  would  not  appear 
until  the  evening  meal  was  over.  He  pot- 
tered around  in  his  woods  or  went  across 
the  ridge  to  look  after  cattle. 

The  log -house  was  exquisite  with  clean- 
ness, even  in  that  corner  where  the  fowls 
roosted.  No  cobwebs  or  dust  marred  the 
rich  brown  of  its  upper  depth.  The  floor 
and  stone  hearth  were  scoured  white.  Wil- 


SWEETNESS  61 

da's  spinning-wheel  stood  beside  one  wall. 
Her  own  apartment  was  an  oblong  space 
curtained  with  homespun  which  had  been 
dyed  a  dull  red.  Some  red  and  gilt  chairs, 
a  pine  table  and  a  red  and  gilt  cushioned 
settee  on  rockers,  furnished  the  house.  The 
log  wall  between  hearth  and  door  held  gay 
trappings  of  tinware  and  pewter,  all  shining 
in  the  mighty  blaze. 

The  table  was  spread  and  a  perfume  of 
coffee  filled  the  place.  Wilda  had  turned 
the  fried  eggs  and  lifted  them  carefully  to  a 
platter  before  she  heard  the  usual  sounds 
her  mother  made  to  call  her. 

Sweetness  was  wide  awake  and  smiling 
like  a  baby.  The  Rocky  Fork  people  said 
she  had  her  faculties  but  could  n't  make  no 
use  of  them.  Unabated  intelligence  looked 
through  her  eyes  and  her  face  never  distorted 
itself,  although  she  could  not  talk. 

"Have  you  been  lonesome  to-day,  Sweet- 
ness ?  No  ?  Have  you  slept  much  ?  Yes  ? 
That's  good.  Did  Speckle  and  Banty  sit 


62  SWEETNESS 

on  Bounce's  back  and  keep  you  company? 
They  've  gone  to  roost  now.  They  're  going 
to  wake  up  about  midnight  and  crow  for 
Christmas,  and  wake  you  up  —  the  bad 
chickens.  —  Now  supper 's  ready.  Folks 
round  here  thinks  I  starve  you  because  you 
never  eat  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  'T  ain't 
no  use  for  me  to  say  anything.  But  if  you 
don't  want  me  to  be  clean  disgraced,  you 
must  eat  hearty  when  you  do  eat." 

She  fed  the  helpless  being  with  long  and 
patient  use  of  a  spoon.  The  fire  roared. 
Bounce  rose  up  and  yawned,  stretching  his 
limbs,  to  hint  that  his  own  plate  had  been 
empty  since  morning.  But  Wilda  never 
hurried  this  important  part  of  her  day's 
business.  The  food  which  she  must  eat  be- 
came overdone.  She  sat  on  the  trundle-bed, 
giving  her  mother  with  the  spoon  meat  all 
the  life  and  doings  of  that  small  world  on 
the  Rocky  Fork. 

"  Gutteridges  were  going  to  have  a  turkey- 
roast  to-morrow.  The  presiding  elder  was 


SWEETNESS  63 

at  their  house.  Yes,  their  sewing  was  done ; 
she  finished  Mandy's  black  quilted  petticoat 
to-day.  Mandy  and  'Lizabeth  both  had  new 
shawls  that  their  father  had  paid  six  dollars 
apiece  for,  at  the  woolen  factory  in  Newark; 
stripes  and  crossbars.  Bidenour's  little  boy 
was  so  he  could  sit  up ;  the  doctor  thought 
the  fever  was  broke.  The  Bankses  were  all 
going  to  take  dinner  at  granny's.  And  some 
folks  said  one  of  Harris's  girls  was  to  be 
married  to-morrow,  but  it  might  be  all  talk. 
There  was  n't  much  chance  of  snow,  but  it 
was  a  cold  night  outside.  Did  n't  Sweetness 
hear  the  wind  across  the  roof?  It  was  a 
•  good  thing  our  clapboards  were  on  so  tight." 

So  this  one-sided  conversation  went  on 
until  the  little  old  woman  was  quite  filled. 
Then  Wilda  made  her  snug,  as  if  attending 
an  infant,  and  fed  Bounce,  and  sat  down 
alone  at  the  table: 

Scarcely  were  the  clean  pewter  and  crock- 
ery in  place  again,  and  the  wheel  set  out 
where  the  table  had  been,  and  Wilda  bun- 


64  SWEETNESS 

died  ready  to  go  out,  when  a  knock  sounded 
on  the  door. 

She  opened  it,  and  exclaimed  as  she  al- 
ways did,  — 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  here 's  Lanson.  Come 
in,  Lanson,  and  take  a  chair." 

"  Gimme  your  milk  bucket,"  responded 
Alanson. 

"  I  was  just  starting  to  milk,  Lanson. 
Don't  you  bother  yourself  with  it  to-night." 

But  he  took  her  pail.  And  Wilda,  smil- 
ing, laid  off  her  wraps  and  made  the  hearth 
very  clean,  and  plumped  up  the  settee  cush- 
ions. 

When  Alanson  handed  the  frothing  pail 
into  the  door,  without  putting  foot  over  the 
threshold,  he  glanced  at  the  fireplace. 

"  Want  another  log  brought  in  to-night  ?  " 

"  Law,  Lanson !  that  one  ain't  half  burnt." 

"  But  it  '11  settle  down  before  another 
twenty-four  hours.  I  'low  I  'd  better  fetch 
a  few  sticks." 

So   he   came    in   laden  with    sections  of 


SWEETNESS  65 

trees,  and  built  them  handily  upon  the 
structure  of  the  fire. 

"Do  you  want  ary  bucket  of  water?" 
was  his  next  inquiry. 

"No,  I'm  obleeged  to  you,  Lanson,"  re- 
plied Wilda.  "I  fetched  a  big  gourdful 
from  the  spring  as  I  come  uphill.  It  saves 
steps." 

Alanson  now  unbelted  and  took  off  his 
butternut-colored  wamus,  and  Wilda  hung 
it  with  his  hat  on  a  peg.  He  had  a  fine 
black  blanket  shawl  for  meeting,  but  he  was 
not  so  reckless  as  to  scratch  it  through  hill 
underbrush  every  evening. 

Feeling  himself  now  ready  for  society, 
Alanson  walked  over  to  the  trundle-bed  and 
greeted  the  invalid. 

"  Good  even',  Mis'  Coon  ;  it 's  right  win- 
try outdoors." 

She  gave  him  an  approving  smile.  He 
sat  down  in  the  settee  and  rocked  himself, 
while  Wilda  pulled  a  long  thread  from  her 
spindle,  stepped  back  and  gave  the  wheel  a 


66  SWEETNESS 

whirl.  The  trundle-bed,  as  usual,  stood  be- 
tween her  and  her  besieger.  A  hum,  rising 
and  rising  like  some  sweet  tune  through  the 
pines,  filled  the  room.  The  great  wheel 
blurred  all  its  spokes,  and  found  them  again, 
and  slackened  to  a  slow  revolution,  as  Wilda 
came  back  to  the  spindle. 

"  How  's  your  aunt  to-day  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Middling,"  replied  Alanson.  Again  the 
music  of  the  spinning  arose.  Alanson 
warmed  his  feet  and  hands,  and  felt  com- 
forted after  his  tramp  through  the  vast  chill 
woods. 

When  the  silent  companionship  which  he 
enjoyed  with  Wilda  had  quite  filled  its  mea- 
sure, he  took  from  his  pocket  and  unfolded 
a  large  newspaper. 

"I'll  light  a  candle,"  said  Wilda,  with 
that  eagerness  for  romance  which  the  sim- 
plest lives  manifest. 

"'T  is  n't  needed,"  said  Alanson.  What 
was  a  candle's  star  to  that  blazing  sun  in 
the  fireplace?  He  turned  his  shoulder  so 


SWEETNESS  67 

the  light  fell  upon  the  "  Saturday  Evening 
Post,"  and  read  a  harrowing  installment 
about  some  Bride  of  the  Wilderness.  There 
was  domestic  bliss  in  this  snug  cabin,  the 
wind-song  of  the  wheel,  and  the  winter  night 
with  its  breath  of  Christmas.  Alanson 
droned  on  in  a  high  key,  the  mother  watch- 
ing him  as  long  as  she  was  able  to  resist  so 
many  monotones.  She  went  to  sleep  before 
Wilda's  stint  of  spinning  was  done,  and  be- 
fore Alanson  read  with  impressive  voice, 
"  To  be  con-tin-u-ed." 

That  wary  inspection  of  each  other  which 
people  of  that  time  called  courting  had 
varied  its  routine  so  little  for  twelve  years 
betwixt  this  pair,  that  Alanson  felt  bound 
to  make  his  usual  remark  as  Wilda  sat 
down  to  knit. 

"  Well,  folks  is  still  talking  about  us  get- 
ting married,  Wilda." 

"Let  them  talk,"  said  Wilda,  putting  her 
hair  behind  her  ear,  and  smiling  while  she 
looked  at  Sweetness. 


68  SWEETNESS 

"  I  come  here  pretty  regular.  Don't  you 
think  it 's  about  time  we  set  the  day  ?  " 

Wilda  answered,  without  moving  her  eyes 
from  the  trundle-bed,  "  Don't  you  think  we 
better  let  well  enough  alone,  Lanson?" 

"  Well,  now,  't  is  n't  well  enough,"  argued 
Alanson,  and  to  the  sylvan  mind  there  is 
accumulated  force  in  an  oft-used  argument. 
"  You  've  got  these  woods  lots  and  the  house 
and  a  co\t " 

"Yes,  I  'm  well  fixed,'*  murmured  Wilda. 

—  "  but  you  have  to  leave  your  mother 
and  go  out  among  the  neighbors  to  airn  a 
living.  How  do  you  know  sometime  the 
house  won't  burn  down  ?  " 

"  I  am  jub'ous  about  it  often,"  owned 
Wilda,  biting  the  end  of  a  knitting-needle. 
But  catching  the  yarn  over  her  little  finger 
she  drove  it  ahead  with  her  work. 

"  Then  eventually  she  might  die." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  sighed  Wilda. 
"  And  I  've  thought  what  'd  become  of  her 
if  I 's  to  be  taken  and  her  left.  Then  who  'd 


SWEETNESS  69 

let  her  pet  rooster  and  hen  —  that  she's 
just  as  tickled  with  as  a  child  —  roost  in 
the  house,  and  clean  after  them  without 
fretting  her  ?  " 

Alanson  glanced  at  Speckle  and  Banty 
sticking  like  balls  to  their  perch,  and  he 
volunteered  some  discreet  possibilities. 

"  When  folks  begins  to  get  used  to  such 
things  before  they're  too  old  and  sot  in 
their  ways,  seems  to  me  like  chickens  in  the 
house  would  be  natteral  enough  —  though 
not  brought  up  to  it." 

Whenever  Alanson  made  this  great  con- 
cession, Wilda  always  fell  back  upon  her 
observations  of  marriage. 

"  But  there  's  Mary  Jane  Willey.  She 
had  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  her  own  right, 
and  was  well  fixed  with  bedding  and  goods 
—  six  chairs  and  a  bread-trough  and  a  cup- 
board. And  all  that  did  n't  satisfy  her,  but 
she  must  have  a  man  to  speckalate  with  her 
money  and  lose  it ;  and  now  he  's  took  to 
drinking,  her  and  her  children  are  like  to  go 
on  the  county." 


70  SWEETNESS 

Alansoii  interlaced  his  fingers  across  his 
chest  and  set  his  thumbs  to  whirling. 

"  She  ought  to  got  a  man  like  me,"  he 
observed  humorously. 

Then  the  topic  was  usually  diverted  into 
the  lives  of  other  Rocky  Forkers  until  Alan- 
son  felt  it  was  time  to  go  home. 

But  to-night,  after  drawing  out  his  silver 
watch  by  its  steel  log-chain,  he  lingered  un- 
easily instead  of  rising  from  the  settee  and 
saying,  "Well,  I  better  be  moseying  to- 
wards home." 

The  flashing  of  Wilda's  needles  went  on. 
She  had  a  leather  stall  pinned  to  her  waist, 
in  which  she  braced  and  steadied  the  most 
rampant  needle  as  he  led  the  gallop  around 
the  stocking.  Sweetness  slept  as  a  spirit 
may  sleep  who  has  escaped  the  bounds  of 
care,  her  sunken  little  mouth  and  wrinkled 
eye-corners  steadily  smiling. 

"  Going  to  have  any  Christmas  up  here 
to-morrow  ?  "  inquired  Alanson,  with  a  sheep- 
ish look  at  Wilda. 


SWEETNESS  71 

"  I  got  a  Christmas  gift  for  her,"  replied 
Wilda  fondly.  Alanson  understood  the  pro- 
nouns which  always  stood  for  mother. 

"  Well,  now,  it 's  funny,"  said  he.  "  But 
I  got  something  for  her,  too." 

"  Why,  Lanson  !  What  ever  put  you  up 
to  do  such  a  thing?"  Wilda  paused  with 
her  needle  held  back  in  mid  plunge. 

"  'T  is  n't  much,"  apologized  Alanson,  and 
he  brought  his  wamus  from  the  peg  to  the 
hearth.  Wilda  had  noticed  it  was  laden 
when  she  hung  it  up,  but  she  always  dis- 
creetly overlooked  the  apples  he  brought 
until  he  made  his  offering. 

There  were  no  apples  in  the  wamus  pockets 
this  time.  Alanson  took  out  two  packets, 
and  opened  one  which  he  laid  on  Wilda's 
knee.  It  was  a  pound  of  red  hearts. 

"  The  other 's  for  her,"  he  said  "  and  it 's 
all  white  ones." 

"  Why,  Lanson  Bundle ! "  exclaimed 
Wilda. 

But  he  had  yet  another  paper,  and  it  dis- 
closed the  yellow  coats  of  tropical  fruit. 


72  SWEETNESS 

«  What's  them?"  breathed  Wilda,  bend- 
ing over  in  admiration.  "  Why,  Lanson 
Bundle  !  If  them  ain't  lemons  and  oranges  ! 
Where  in  this  world  did  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  I  sent  clean  to  Fredericktown  for  them," 
confessed  the  suitor  with  an  apologetic  grin. 
"  I  thought  her  being  bedfast  so  steady  all 
the  time,  she  'd  like  something  out  of  the 
common." 

"You  are  real  clever,"  spoke  Wilda  with 
trembling  voice.  "  She  '11  be  so  tickled ! 
I  been  making  her  two  fine  caps  with  hem- 
stitching around  the  border ;  —  but  this  does 
beat  all!" 

"  I  done  something  else,"  Alanson  ven- 
tured on,  "  that  you  '11  think  is  simple ;  — 
I  've  never  seen  such  a  thing,  but  I  've  read 
about  it.  Coming  along  through  the  pines  I 
took  my  jack-knife  out  and  cut  a  little  one 
off  close  to  the  ground ;  and  it 's  laying  out- 
side the  door." 

«  What  for,  Lanson  ?  " 

"  A  Christmas-tree." 


SWEETNESS  73 

"What's  that?" 

"  Why,  in  a  foreign  place  they  call  Ger- 
many, I  Ve  read  they  take  an  evergreen  and 
make  it  stand  like  it  growed  in  the  house, 
and  hang  gifts  on  it,  and  if  I  don't  disre- 
member,  they  fix  candles  into  it  and  light 
them." 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  pretty," 
said  Wilda  in  some  excitement.  "  Law,  Lan- 
son  !  If  we  could  fix  it  at  the  foot  of  her 
trundle-bed !  " 

Alanson  thought  they  could  fix  it,  and  he 
set  vigorously  about  the  task.  He  ran  out 
to  the  ash-hopper  and  brought  in  the  keg 
which  in  summer  time  caught  the  lye.  The 
evergreen  tree,  beautifully  straight,  and  tas- 
seled  at  the  top,  he  fastened  in  the  keg 
ingeniously,  without  clamor  of  nails  and 
pounding. 

Then  maid  and  bachelor  trimmed  the 
Christmas  tree  for  their  old  sleeping  child. 
A  dexterous  use  of  string  hung  all  the  hearts 
to  the  boughs,  as  well  as  oranges  and  lemons. 


74  SWEETNESS 

One  cap  was  put  on  the  top  tassel,  and  the 
other  dropped  from  a  branch  by  its  ties. 
Wilda  brought  out  her  candle  box  and  reck- 
lessly cut  the  moulded  tallow  into  short  ta- 
pers. This  part  of  the  decoration  greatly 
taxed  both  Alanson  and  her.  But  they 
finally  pinned  all  the  tapers  in  place,  and 
concluded  to  light  the  wicks  for  a  trial. 

Alanson  carried  a  brand  from  point  to 
point.  Wilda  was  frightened  at  the  beauty 
of  the  thing  and  their  unusual  occupation. 
Her  eyes  and  cheeks  were  vivid.  She  had 
never  been  so  wildly  excited  in  her  life  be- 
fore. Thought  and  resolution,  which  had 
battled  for  years,  bounded  forward  with  the 
bounding  of  her  blood, 

"Lanson  Bundle!"  she  laughed,  "what 
do  you  suppose  folks  would  say  if  they 
peeked  in  and  seen  us  at  this !  " 

"  I  'low  they  'd  want  to  have  a  Christmas- 
tree  themselves,"  responded  the  bachelor. 
"  You  and  me  will  have  one  next  year  at 
our  own  house,  won't  we,  Wilda?  " 


SWEETNESS  75 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  we  will.  I 
don't  know  as  I  can  hold  out  much  longer. 
You  're  a  real  good  man,  Lanson,  and  if  I  've 
got  to  get  married,  there  ain't  nobody  I  'd 
have  as  quick  as  you." 

At  that  admission  Alanson  laid  the  brand 
on  the  fire,  wiped  his  lips  carefully  with  a 
red  cotton  handkerchief,  and  came  expect- 
antly round  the  Christmas-tree.  But  with 
the  recoil  of  a  middle-aged  girl  from  drop- 
ping man  a  word  of  encouragement,  Wilda 
flew  behind  the  trundle-bed  and  kept  her 
lover  warned  by  an  uplifted  palm. 

"  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  to  no  kiss- 
ing yet,  Lanson  Bundle  !  I  ain't  used  to 
kissing  anybody  but  her." 

Alanson  looked  at  the  little  mother  in  the 
trundle-bed,  and  she  opened  her  eyes,  dis- 
turbed by  such  scampering.  The  pet  chickens 
were  roused  also,  and  Speckle  crowed  on  his 
perch  with  a  vigor  which  belongs  only  to  the 
midnight  of  Christmas  eve. 

"  Look  there,  Sweetness,"    Wilda   whis- 


76  SWEETNESS 

pered  kneeling.  "  Do  you  see  what  Lanson  's 
fixed  for  you  ?  That 's  a  Christmas-tree." 

The  mother's  eyes  caught  the  Christmas- 
tree,  and  snapped  with  astonishment  and  de- 
light. The  tapers  were  dripping  tallow,  but 
firelight  shone  through  the  boughs,  and  all 
the  wonderful  hearts  and  yellow  fruit  hung 
like  a  fairy  picture.  Her  grateful  look 
finally  sought  Alanson,  and  he  also  knelt 
down,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  trundle-bed, 
and  with  reverence  which  brought  a  rush  of 
tears  to  Wilda's  eyes,  kissed  Sweetness  on 
the  forehead. 

Wilda  furtively  gathered  her  tears  on  her 
finger-tips,  and  hid  them  in  her  linsey  dress, 
but  she  said  impressively  to  Alanson,  — 

"  Now,  that  kiss  will  make  you  a  better 
man  all  your  life." 


SERENA 

TIME, 1860 

SERENA  HEDDING  drove  through  the  gate- 
way of  her  father's  farm,  while  her  little  son 
held  the  creaking  gate  open.  Her  vehicle 
was  a  low  buggy,  with  room  at  the  back  for 
a  sack  of  nubbins,  which  the  scrawny  white 
horse  would  appreciate  on  his  return  trip. 
The  driver  was  obliged  to  cluck  encourage- 
ment to  him  as  he  paused,  with  his  head 
down,  in  the  gateway;  and  before  he  had 
taken  ten  steps  forward,  before  Milton  could 
stick  the  pin  back  in  the  post-hole  and  scam- 
per to  his  seat  at  her  left  side,  she  lived  her 
girlhood  over.  She  saw  her  father  holding 
that  gate  open  for  camp-meeting  or  pro- 
tracted-meeting folks  to  drive  in  to  dinner 
with  him.  She  saw  Milton  Hedding  ride 
through  to  court  her,  and  the  scowl  her  fa- 


78  SERENA 

ther  gave  him  ;  and  the  buggy  which  waited 
for  her  in  the  woods  one  afternoon,  herself 
getting  into  it,  and  Milton  whipping  up  his 
horse  to  carry  her  away  forever. 

The  road  wound,  folding  on  itself,  through 
dense  woods.  Nothing  had  changed  about 
the  road.  She  noticed  that  the  old  log 
among  the  haw  saplings  remained  untouched. 
That  log  was  a  link  binding  her  childhood 
to  her  girlhood.  She  sat  on  it  to  baste  up 
the  hem  of  her  ridiculously  long  dress  before 
going  to  school,  her  dinner-basket  waiting 
near ;  and,  coming  home  in  the  evening,  she 
there  ripped  the  basting  out,  lest  Aunt 
Lindy  should  notice  that  her  skirt  did  not 
flop  against  her  heels,  as  proper  skirts  had 
done  in  Aunt  Lindy's  childhood.  Seated 
on  that  log,  she  and  Milton  had  talked  of 
the  impossibility  of  their  marriage,  and  de- 
cided to  run  away. 

It  was  so  near  sunset  that  the  woods  were 
in  mellow  twilight.  She  heard  the  cows 
lowing  away  off,  and  a  loaded  wagon  rum- 


SERENA  79 

bling  over  the  Feeder  bridge.  The  loamy 
incense  of  this  ancestral  land  was  so  sweet 
that  it  pained  her.  Soon  the  house  would 
come  in  sight,  and  seem  to  strike  her  on  the 
face.  If  they  had  altered  it  any,  she  did 
not  know  it.  Was  her  father's  sick-bed 
downstairs,  or  did  Aunt  Lindy  keep  him 
above  the  narrow  staircase  ?  The  slippery- 
elm  tree  she  used  to  wound  for  its  juicy 
strips  started  out  at  the  roadside  to  give  her 
a  scarry  welcome.  Her  fingers  brushed  her 
cheeks,  and  drew  the  black  sunbonnet  far- 
ther over  them. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  mother  ?  "  inquired 
her  light-haired  boy.  "  Are  you  feared 
grandfather's  worse  ?  " 

"  I  hope  he  ain't,"  replied  Serena.  Then 
the  house,  on  its  rising  ground,  appeared, 
crossed  by  trees.  It  had  a  yard  in  which 
lilac  bushes  and  tall  hollyhocks  bordered 
the  path.  The  gate  opened  into  an  orchard, 
and  the  orchard  was  guarded  from  the  lane 
by  bars,  which  Serena's  little  boy  let  down, 
and  they  drove  in. 


80  SEEENA 

Her  father's  barn  was  one  of  those  im- 
mense structures  which  early  Ohio  farmers 
built  to  indicate  their  wealth.  It  had  al- 
ways seemed  bursting  with  hay  and  grain, 
and  the  stamp  of  horses  resounded  from  its 
basement  stables. 

Serena  looked  piteously  at  the  house.  Ve- 
hicles of  various  kinds  were  fastened  all 
along  the  fence.  Still,  no  solemn  voice  or 
sound  of  singing  reached  her  ear.  It  had 
long  been  the  Jeffries  custom  to  hold  ser- 
vices over  their  dead  at  the  house.  No  fea- 
ther-bed hung  across  the  garden  palings; 
neither  was  the  hideous  cooling-board  stand- 
ing up  anywhere,  like  a  wooden  tombstone. 
But  the  whole  neighborhood  was  there.  He 
must  be  very  low  indeed. 

The  youthful  widow  and  her  boy  alighted, 
and  tied  their  horse  in  a  humble  corner  near 
the  woodpile.  Nobody  came  out  to  receive 
them.  That  was  another  bad  sign.  She 
was  cramped  by  her  long  ride.  If  her  sus- 
pense had  not  been  so  great  she  must  have 


SEEENA  81 

felt  a  pang  of  shame  at  the  shabby  appear- 
ance of  her  son  and  herself,  on  this  first 
return  from  exile. 

The  house  dog  barked,  waking  suddenly 
from  his  meditations  to  learn  who  they  were 
and  what  they  wanted.  But  he  recollected 
that  a  great  many  strangers  had  been  com- 
ing and  going  recently,  and  considering  his 
duty  done,  trotted  back,  and  stretched  him- 
self to  snap  flies. 

Serena  felt  obliged  to  go  around  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  though  the  back  door- 
step showed  the  wear  of  her  childish  feet. 
But  as  she  passed  the  first  rosebush,  Milty 
trotting  in  the  white  path  behind  her,  a  wo- 
man came  from  the  back  porch,  holding  a 
handkerchief  over  her  cap,  the  ribbons  of 
which  flew  back  on  each  side  of  her  neck. 
The  light  glared  on  her  spectacles.  She 
was  as  trim  and  quick  as  a  young  girl. 
Her  dress,  cape,  and  apron  were  of  the  same 
material,  and  her  waist  was  fastened  in 
front  with  a  spiky  row  of  pins. 


82  SERENA 

"  Serene  Heddin' !  "  she  exclaimed,  with 
the  spring  in  her  voice  which  Serena  remem- 
bered comparing  to  the  clip  of  a  mouse-trap, 
u  you  're  not  goin'  into  the  front  door  to 
scare  your  father  to  death  in  his  last  mo- 
ments." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lindy,"  said  the  shabby 
widow,  lifting  her  hands,  "  is  he  as  bad  as 
that?" 

"  He 's  been  struck  with  death  all  the 
afternoon.  You  come  in  this  way." 

"Can't  I  see  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Hed- 
ding,  climbing  over  the  back  doorstone  like 
a  suddenly  exhausted  pilgrim,  her  face  quiv- 
ering under  streams  of  tears. 

Through  open  doors  she  recognized  in  the 
parlor  and  sitting-room  groups  of  old  neigh- 
bors, waiting  in  that  hush  with  which  they 
always  accompanied  one  another  to  the  brink 
of  death.  A  woman  came  from  among 
them,  whispering,  — 

"  Who 's  this,  Lindy  ?  "  and  immediately 
informing  herself  :  "  Why,  Sereny  Jeffr's  ! 


SERENA  83 

Have  you  got  here  ?  Come  right  in  to  your 
pap.  He  's  pretty  nigh  gone." 

"  It  won't  do  no  good,  Sister  McGafferty," 
said  Aunt  Lindy.  "  He  won't  know  her, 
and  'twill  disturb  him.  She  was  postin'  in 
at  the  front  door  when  I  caught  her,"  de- 
clared Aunt  Lindy,  as  if  speaking  of  a  thief. 

Sister  McGafferty,  a  comfortable,  large 
woman  in  blue  spectacles,  the  presiding 
elder's  wife,  and  therefore  a  person  of  au- 
thority, still  beckoned  Serena  in,  and  she 
passed  Aunt  Lindy,  followed  by  her  bare- 
footed boy.  The  round-posted  bedstead  was 
drawn  out  from  the  wall,  and  under  its  sheet 
and  many  colored  quilt  lay  the  old  farmer, 
his  mouth  open,  his  eyes  glazed,  his  narrow 
brows  and  knotty  features  wearing  a  ghastly 
pallor.  But  behind  the  solemn  terror  of 
that  face  was  her  father. 

Aunt  Lindy  followed,  and  twitched  her 
elbow,  thereby  creating  a  faction  in  Serena 
Bedding's  favor  among  the  spectators.  They 
were  all  well-to-do  people,  who  noticed  her 


84  SERENA 

dejected  attitude  toward  the  world,  and  had 
always  disapproved  of  her  thriftless  match. 
But  they  said  within  themselves  that  Lindy 
Miller  was  going  too  far  when  she  tried  to 
pull  a  daughter  away  from  her  dying  father. 

"Ain't  you  'shamed  to  disturb  his  last 
peaceful  minutes  !  "  Aunt  Lindy  hissed  with 
force. 

But  the  returned  culprit  fastened  such 
desperate  interest  on  the  unseeing  eyes  of 
her  father  that  Aunt  Lindy' s  interruption 
was  as  remote  to  her  as  the  gambols  of  loose 
horses  in  the  pasture. 

If  there  had  now  been  time  and  opportu- 
nity, Serena  could  not  argue  her  case  with 
him.  He  never  had  allowed  that.  She 
could  not  tell  how  true  and  happy  her  mar- 
riage was,  in  spite  of  his  disapproval  and  its 
accompanying  poverty.  She  had  suffered, 
but  her  heart  had  ripened  so  that  she  could 
discern  and  love  the  good  in  human  nature 
across  its  narrow  bounds.  Words  or  expres- 
sions did  not  occur  to  her ;  but  a  thousand 


SEEENA  85 

living  thoughts  swarmed  in  her  mind.  If 
he  would  look  at  her  again  with  reconcilia- 
tion in  his  eyes,  she  could  be  satisfied,  and 
bear  all  her  future  trials  like  benedictions. 
Never  a  loving  father,  he  was,  until  her  dis- 
obedience, a  fairly  kind  one.  He  was  a 
very  religious  man  of  the  old  sort,  believing 
seriousness  to  be  the  primary  principle  of 
godliness,  and  levity  a  fermentation  of 
the  inward  Satan.  He  always  paid  his 
quarterage  and  contributed  to  foreign  mis- 
sions, while  every  successive  preacher  on  the 
circuit  used  his  house  as  home.  The  deep 
grooves  making  a  triangle  of  his  upper  lip 
showed  how  constant  and  sad  his  meditations 
had  been.  Yet  this  old  farmer  was  in  some 
matters  timid  and  self-distrustful,  and  so 
fond  of  peace  and  quiet  as  to  yield  his  rights 
for  them. 

"  Father,"  pleaded  Serena  Hedding,  bend- 
ing closer  to  him.  "  Father !  "  Uncon- 
sciously she  repeated  the  name  like  a  cry. 
The  hum  of  the  bee-hives  against  the  garden 


86  SERENA 

palings  could  be  heard.  Did  a  ray  dart 
across  his  leaden  brain  from  the  afternoon 
his  only  child,  in  short  coats,  poked  a  stick 
in  the  bee-hives,  and,  feeling  the  results  of 
her  folly,  wailed  thus  to  him  ?  Did  he  im- 
agine himself  again  dropping  the  rake  and 
leaping  the  fence  to  run  with  her  from  her 
tormentors?  A  flicker  grew  through  the 
glazing  of  his  eyes,  and  became  a  steady 
light,  a  look,  a  tender  gaze,  a  blessing.  She 
clasped  her  hands,  and  rocked  before  him  in 
ecstasy.  He  knew  her,  and  revealed,  mid- 
way over  the  silent  chasm  of  death,  how  un- 
alterably close  and  dear  she  was  to  him.  In 
that  small  eternity  of  time  they  were  knitted 
together  as  never  before.  His  eyes  began 
to  glaze  again,  and  she  remembered  Milty. 
Pushing  the  child  forward,  she  cried  again, 
"  My  boy,  father !  See  my  boy !  " 

The  old  man  saw  him.  That  rigid  face 
was  too  set  to  smile,  but  with  the  image  of  his 
child's  child  on  his  eyes,  the  hope  of  future 
generations  of  his  blood,  he  passed  away. 


SERENA  87 

A  little  time  was  allowed  for  the  wailing 
that  rises  around  every  death-bed.  The 
overtaxed  young  widow  rocked  her  son 
against  her,  while  he  gazed  about  him  in 
awe.  Aunt  Lindy  stood  by  the  bedpost, 
burying  her  face  in  her  apron.  Her  son, 
Hod  Miller,  a  huge  creature,  very  black- 
eyed,  bright-complexioned,  and  having  the 
appearance  of  possessing  no  immortal  soul, 
sat  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  his  legs 
crossed  and  his  shoulders  hung  forward, 
looking  respectfully  concerned.  There  were 
no  other  near  relatives  except  Jesse  Jeffries 
and  his  wife,  who  covered  their  faces  while 
this  elder  brother  lay  in  the  first  dignity  of 
death. 

Then  a  quiet  bustle  began.  Sister  Mc- 
Gafferty  took  Serena  Hedding  out  of  the 
parlor,  and  made  her  lie  down  on  the  sit- 
ting-room straw-tick  lounge,  and  smell  cam- 
phor. Milty  wandered  out-of-doors,  and  was 
grateful  to  a  neighbor's  boy,  forbidden  the 
house  and  enjoined  to  watch  the  horses,  who 


88  SERENA 

told  him,  after  an  exchange  of  scrutiny,  that 
he  durs  n't  take  a  dare  which  'ud  reach  the 
medder  fence  first.  The  men  took  charge 
of  the  body.  They  closed  the  parlor  doors, 
and,  with  basins  of  water,  clean  linen,  and 
the  new  store  suit  Aunt  Lindy's  forethought 
had  ready  in  the  house,  performed  those 
solemn  rites  to  which  all  our  flesh  must 
humbly  come.  One  mounted  a  horse  and 
rode  to  Millersport  for  the  undertaker.  Lit- 
tle Jimmy  Holmes,  who  was  a  middle-aged 
man,  but  had  a  father  known  as  Old  or  Big 
Jimmy,  was  informed  by  his  wife  that  he 
could  go  home  now,  and  look  after  the 
milkin'  and  f  eedin' ;  she  would  stay  here  and 
tend  to  things.  Into  her  capable  hands 
Aunt  Lindy  appeared  to  resign  the  house, 
while  Little  Jimmy  and  their  son,  Little 
Jimmy's  Jimmy,  drove  into  the  pleasant 
dusk. 

After  inquiring  about  the  date  of  the 
funeral,  and  detailing  watchers  for  the  inter- 
vening nights,  the  other  neighbors  slowly 


SEEENA  89 

dispersed  in  squads.  Lights  appeared  about 
the  house,  and  the  kitchen  and  cellar  yielded 
up  their  prepared  good  things. 

Before  they  reached  home  the  neighbors 
began  to  speculate  about  the  disposition  of 
the  property.  They  said  Moses  Jeffr's  had 
been  a  hard  worker,  and  his  sister  Lindy 
had  been  a  hard  worker,  and  she  had  kept 
his  house  for  more  than  twenty  year : 
'twould  n't  be  no  more  than  right  for  him 
to  leave  her  well  off.  She  had  been  savin' 
with  what  her  man  left  her,  and  Hod  Miller 
had  done  a  son's  part  by  the  old  man. 
Money  goes  to  them  that  lays  up.  Some 
said  Mr.  Jeffr's  had  cut  off  Sereny  with  a 
cent  in  his  will.  Sereny  ought  to  knowed 
better  than  to  done  as  she  did.  It  was  a 
pity,  specially  as  she  was  left  a  widow-wo- 
man, with  a  little  boy  to  raise.  But  when 
a  person  makes  their  bed,  they  got  to  lie  in 
it.  How  tickled  Mr.  Jeffr's  was  when 
Sereny  was  a  little  girl  experiencin'  religion ! 
He  never  thought  then  she  would  go  and 


90  SERENA 

run  off.  She  had  a  good  home,  and  he 
would  have  done  well  by  her. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  folks-talk 
among  the  Serena  faction,  whose  hearts 
melted  toward  the  girl  when  she  rocked  be- 
fore her  father.  They  said  there  never 
would  have  been  any  trouble  between  Moses 
Jeffr's  and  his  daughter  if  Lindy  Miller 
had  n't  managed  things.  Milt  Heddin'  was 
a  good  feller,  only  he  had  n't  the  knack  of 
gettin'  along.  But  he  could  have  worked 
the  farm  as  well  as  Hod  Miller.  They 
wanted  Sereny  to  have  her  rights.  It  was  a 
scandal  and  a  shame  if  that  big,  able-bodied 
feller,  with  land  of  his  own,  could  turn  her 
off  the  home  place. 

Serena  wandered  about  the  house,  which 
strangers  seemed  to  possess,  crying  over  fa- 
miliar objects.  She  had  large  violet  eyes, 
and  was  once  considered  as  pretty  a  girl  as 
came  to  meeting,  though  her  lips  were  too 
prominent  and  full.  She  looked  shabby  and 
piteous.  Sister  McGafferty  combed  her  hair 


SERENA  91 

for  her,  while  her  trembling,  work-worn 
hands  lay  in  her  lap. 

"  They  've  borried  a  black  bonnet  and 
dress  for  you,  Sister  Sereny,"  said  the 
elder's  wife,  who  had  been  around  the  cir- 
cuit when  this  sorrowful  creature  was  a  shy 
child. 

"I  might  have  worn  a  better  dress  and 
bonnet.  But  when  word  came,  I  felt  so  bad 
I  did  n't  think  of  anything.  They  did  n't  let 
me  know  until  he  was  near  gone." 

Milty  spent  his  time  out-of-doors.  He 
approved  of  the  barn,  and  did  not  approve 
of  Aunt  Lindy.  His  mother  had  said, 
"  Aunt  Lindy,  this  is  my  boy." 

And  Aunt  Lindy  had  said,  "  He  looks 
spindlin',  like  the  Heddin's.  I  hope  you  're 
raisin'  him  to  obedience.  Children  set  on 
their  own  way  gives  their  parents  plenty  of 
sorrow  to  sup." 

This  spry  great-aunt's  glasses  detected 
him  if  he  touched  a  daguerreotype  among 
the  glaring,  upright  array  on  the  sitting- 


92  SERENA 

room  table,  or  ventured  too  near  the  fine 
men  and  women  pasted  on  the  fire-screen. 

She  took  him  to  see  his  grandfather  after 
the  laying-out,  turned  back  the  ghastly  sheet, 
which  was  stretched  between  two  chairs,  re- 
moved cloths  from  the  dead  man's  face,  and 
warned  the  boy  to  prepare  for  death.  He 
never  afterwards  inhaled  the  pungent  odor 
of  camphor  without  turning  faint. 

At  table  he  and  his  mother  huddled  to- 
gether, feeling  scarcely  welcome  to  the  abun- 
dant food.  Little  Jimmy  Holmes' s  wife, 
with  a  number  of  helpers,  kept  the  table 
burdened  with  every  country  luxury,  but 
Aunt  Lindy  saw  that  the  best  was  reserved 
until  the  great  final  dinner  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral. 

That  day  was  considered  a  credit  to  Moses 
Jeffries.  It  was  one  of  the  largest  funerals 
ever  known  in  those  parts.  The  weather 
was  pleasant,  and  summer  work  so  well  ad- 
vanced that  everybody  could  feel  the  pres- 
sure of  neighborly  duty.  Carriages  and  fine 


SEEENA  93 

horses  nearly  filled  the  orchard  space  in  front 
of  the  house ;  the  yard  was  darkened  with 
standing  men  in  their  best  black  clothes. 
Not  half  the  people  could  get  into  the  house, 
to  say  nothing  of  getting  into  the  parlor. 
There  Elder  McGafferty  lifted  his  hands, 
praying  and  preaching  over  the  old  farmer, 
who  looked  so  unused  to  his  collar  and  neck- 
cloth and  brand-new  suit  when  they  took  off 
his  coffin-lid. 

A  number  of  men  wandered  down  by  the 
barn ;  the  hymn-singing  came  to  them  faint 
and  plaintive,  in  gusts  of  couplets,  just  as 
the  preacher  lined  the  words. 

One  of  them  remarked  that  old  Mr. 
Jeffr's  left  things  in  pretty  good  shape,  and 
he  s'posed  Hod  Miller  would  n't  alter  them 
much.  Another  thought  that  Serene  Hed- 
din'  would  come  in  for  a  sheer,  if  not  all. 
A  man  may  be  put  out  with  his  children, 
but  he  '11  favor  them  when  it  comes  to  such 
serious  business  as  makin'  a  will.  Hod 
Miller  had  bought  and  sold  and  made  money 


94  SERENA 

on  that  farm,  enough  to  pay  for  his  work. 
He  ought  n't  to  stand  in  Sereny's  light. 

"  What 's  she  been  doin'  since  her  man 
died  ?  "  inquired  the  first  speaker,  shaving 
off  long  whittlings  from  a  piece  of  pine. 

"  Workin'  out,  'pears  like  I  heard.  She 
got  a  place  near  Lancaster,  where  they  'd  let 
her  keep  her  boy  with  her.  It 's  my  opin- 
ion," said  the  second  speaker,  suddenly  spit- 
ting a  flood,  and  letting  his  spiky  chin  work 
up  and  down  with  slow  rumination,  "  that 
old  Lindy  kept  her  away  from  her  pap  as 
long  as  she  could,  for  fear  there  'd  be  a 
makin'  up." 

"  Oh,  sho !  The  old  man  was  very  set  in 
his  ways.  He  did  n't  need  bully-raggin'  to 
make  up  his  mind  and  keep  it  made  up. 
Hod  Miller  might  marry  the  widder  now, 
and  that  'd  settle  all  claims." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  'd  have  him,"  said 
the  chewer,  smiling  slowly.  "  Jesse  Jeffr's, 
he  thinks  Sereny  's  all  right.  He  claims  he 
seen  the  will." 


SERENA  95 

The  whittler  scoffed  at  such  claims.  Jesse 
Jeffries  was  held  in  light  esteem  by  his  old 
neighbors.  He  sold  his  farm,  and  had  such 
a  hankering  for  town  life  as  to  settle  in 
Millersport,  the  Deep  Cut  of  the  Ohio  canal, 
and  lose  every  cent  of  it  in  grocery-keeping. 
What  Jesse  Jeffries  said  or  did  thereafter 
was  of  small  importance.  His  record  slew 

him. 

A 
There   was   bustle    at   the   front  of   the 

house.  Both  men  squinted  in  the  sun,  and 
watched  a  long  black  object  with  shining 
dots  upon  it  coming  through  the  door,  borne 
by  stout  young  farmers.  The  men  in  the 
yard  raised  their  hats.  After  the  coffin 
came  Serena,  on  her  Uncle  Jesse's  arm.  He 
shuffled  along  uncomfortably,  as  if  not  used 
to  showing  such  attention  to  the  women- 
folks. After  them  came  Hod  Miller  and 
his  mother,  and  Jesse  Jeffries'  wife  with  Se- 
rena's boy.  Sister  McGafferty  considered 
this  the  proper  order  of  procession,  and  had 
so  managed  it.  Streams  of  people  gushed 


96  SERENA 

from  all  the  outlets  of  the  house ;  the  car- 
riages filled  and  were  arrayed  in  line ;  the 
long  black  serpent  trailed  down  through  the 
woods ;  and  the  women  remaining  to  pre- 
pare dinner  stood  and  counted,  until  they 
declared  it  beat  everything.  It  was  a  plea- 
sant sensation  to  be  at  such  a  populous 
funeral. 

When  Jesse  Jeffries  foretold  the  contents 
of  the  will  he  did  not  speak  without  author- 
ity, for  it  had  been  left  in  his  hands.  After 
a  hearty  dinner,  at  which  many  tablefuls  of 
neighbors  assisted,  he  importantly  called  the 
possible  heirs  together,  and  their  factions 
sat  by  to  listen. 

Aunt  Lindy  was  neither  nervous  nor 
bowed  with  grief.  She  had  done  her  duty, 
and  knew  what  her  deserts  were.  Her  son 
Hod  tipped  back  in  his  chair,  and  twitched 
his  shirt-collar.  He  wanted  to  have  the 
thing  over,  and  was  not  without  doubts  of 
his  succeeding  to  the  estate.  If  it  came  to 
him  he  meant  to  hold  to  it.  His  hands 


SEEENA  97 

were  as  strong  as  a  vise,  and  typified  his 
grip  on  property.  Serena  might  try  to 
break  the  will,  but  if  she  lawed  until  Judg- 
ment Day  he  would  not  give  her  a  cent  he 
was  not  obliged  to  give  her.  Women-folks 
were  a  sort  of  cattle  he  had  no  fancy 
for. 

Curious  eyes  watched  Serena,  and  specu- 
lated on  her  emotions.  She  was  pale  and 
quiet.  Her  son  stood  beside  her. 

The  testator's  brother  broke  the  seal,  and 
began  to  read. 

The  testator,  after  stating  his  sanity  and 
general  ability  to  execute  such  a  document, 
giving  the  numbers  of  his  various  lands  and 
enumerating  his  parcels  of  property  in  the 
tedious  and  high-sounding  repetition  pre- 
scribed by  law,  bequeathed  it  all  to  his  be- 
loved daughter  Serena  Jeffries,  and  her  heirs, 
the  said  Serena  being  enjoined  to  pay  a 
stated  annuity  to  her  aunt,  the  testator's 
beloved  sister,  and  to  make  over  to  her  cer- 
tain chattels  particularly  named ;  also  a 


98  SERENA 

legacy  of  five  hundred  dollars  to  her  cousin, 
Howard  Miller. 

Sister  McGafferty  poked  the  camphor 
bottle  toward  Serena,  but  it  was  declined. 

Still  the  poor  girl  could  not  believe  this. 
Disinheritance  had  been  so  long  accepted  as 
part  of  the  penalty  of  her  marriage  that 
she  scarcely  thought  of  it  as  injustice.  But 
to  have  the  homestead  for  her  own  was  a 
rise  which  made  her  dizzy. 

After  gazing  on  her  with  satisfaction 
through  his  glasses,  Uncle  Jesse  turned  the 
paper  over,  and  rapidly  read  a  small  codicil, 
which  nevertheless  choked  him.  He  knew 
nothing  about  this  part  of  the  will.  It 
destroyed  Serena  Hedding's  claims,  on  ac- 
count of  her  disobedience,  and  made  How- 
ard Miller  unconditional  heir. 

So  that  settled  the  matter.  Serena  turned 
whiter.  It  was  a  shock,  after  realizing  one 
instant  the  possession  of  competence. 

"  I  'low  Mozy  must  have  put  that  on  the 
day  he  took  it  away  to  have  more  added,  he 


SEEENA  99 

said,"  remarked  Uncle  Jesse  huskily.  His 
good  wife,  who  was  all  cap-rim  and  beak, 
with  a  thin  neck  and  general  air  of  scrawn- 
iness,  sat  with  her  claws  crossed  in  silent 
sympathy.  Jesse  and  his  wife  did  not  find 
Lindy  a  congenial  sister. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Aunt  Lindy,  turning 
her  head  so  the  light  fell  in  a  sheet  of  glare 
upon  her  spectacles,  "  I  'm  satisfied.  That 
is,  I  will  be  when  I  've  said  what  I  'm  goin' 
to  say.  I  'm  a  plain  speaker,  and  tell  my 
mind.  Things  has  turned  out  right.  Sereny 
Heddin'  left  her  pap,  and  we  stayed  by 
him.  She  's  got  her  reward,  and  we  've  got 
our'n.  I  hope  you  don't  take  no  exceptions 
to  his  will,  Sereny  ?  " 

Sereny  replied  in  a  low  voice  that  she  did 
not  take  any. 

"  To  show  that  I  'm  fair-minded  and  want 
to  do  right  by  you,"  said  Aunt  Lindy,  rais- 
ing her  voice  to  the  tone  she  used  in  speak- 
ing-meeting when  exhorting  sinners,  "  I  '11 
give  you  your  mother's  spinnin'-wheel  that 


100  SEEENA 

stands  in  the  smoke-house.  You  ought  to 
have  something  to  remember  her  by." 

Little  Jimmy  Holmes' s  wife  nudged  the 
woman  next  to  her,  and  whispered,  with  a 
curving  mouth,  "  Just  the  idy  !  And  all 
Sereny's  mother's  spoons,  and  her  quilts 
and  coverlids  she  had  wove !  And  the  girl 
never  having  any  settin'-out  in  the  first 
place  !  " 

Serena  climbed  the  staircase,  to  take  off 
her  borrowed  mourning,  and  put  on  her  own 
shabby  weeds  for  her  ride  back  into  the 
world.  She  passed  presses  stacked  with 
household  linen.  The  precious  things  of 
her  childhood,  seen  and  handled  in  this  try- 
ing visit,  seemed  so  heart-breakingly  precious 
because  Hod  Miller's  future  wife  would 
throw  them  about  as  common.  She  would 
like  to  have  the  yellow,  leather-bound  copy 
of  "  Alonzo  and  Melissa,"  the  novel  of  the 
house,  always  considered  unwholesome  by 
the  elders,  and  as  surely  read  with  sly  zest 
by  the  children.  The  coverlet  with  her 


mother's  name  woven  into  it  had  never  been 
intended  for  anybody  but  the  daughter  of 
the  house.  It  was  unendurable  to  go  away 
from  home  this  second  time,  and  into  per- 
petual exile. 

"  Now  I  wisht  they  'd  find  a  later  will," 
said  Little  Jimmy  Holmes's  wife,  tying  on 
her  bonnet  in  the  best  bedroom.  The  per- 
sons who  had  lingered  to  support  the  family 
through  the  ordeal  of  will-reading  were  driv- 
ing off,  one  after  another.  "  Oh,  but  Aunt 
Lindy  '11  carry  things  before  her !  Is  she 
anywhere  near  ?  I  don't  want  her  to  hear 
me." 

"  Things  don't  turn  out  that  way  except 
in  novel-stories,"  observed  another  woman, 
with  her  mouth  full  of  pins.  "  They  don't 
find  wills  hid  around  in  stockin's  or  Bibles. 
I  declare,  I'm  real  sorry  for  Sereny.  I 
don't  see  how  old  Mr.  Jeffr's  can  lay  easy  in 
his  grave,  turnin'  his  own  child  out  to  give 
place  to  a  big,  hearty  feller,  with  money  in 
his  own  right." 


102 

"  I  always  thought  so  much  of  Serene," 
said  Little  Jimmy  Holmes's  wife.  "  We 
was  taken  into  full  church  membership  on 
the  same  day  ;  and  we  used  to  run  together 
and  swap  dinners  at  the  Gum  College.  Aunt 
Lindy  was  so  hard  on  her.  I  've  asked 
Serene  to  go  home  with  me  and  stay  as  long 
as  she  wanted  to.  But  she  has  to  take  that 
horse  and  buggy  back.  And  I  don't  think 
she  could  stand  it,  so  near  the  old  home." 

"  Now  what  do  you  think  ?  "  said  Jesse 
Jeffries'  wife,  coming  in,  with  her  black- 
mitted  hands  pressed  together.  "  Things  is 
willed  to  Sereny,  after  all." 

The  bedroom  resounded  with  ejaculations. 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  "  inquired 
Little  Jimmy  Holmes's  wife.  "  I  'd  give  all 
my  yearlin'  calves  to  have  it  so." 

"  There  was  another  piece  wrote  on  to 
the  paper,  that  Jesse  missed.  'Pears  like 
Mozy  cut  her  off,  and  then  repented,  and 

went  right  to  another   lawyer   and   had  it 
i 
fixed,  for  it 's  in  two  different  handwrites. 


SERENA  103 

Things  stands  just  as  they  did  in  the 
first." 

"  I  'm  sorry  Lindy  gets  her  yearly  por- 
tion," said  Mrs.  Holmes,  in  an  irreverent 
aside.  "  Let  me  get  out  of  this  crowd  :  I  'm 
goin'  to  hug  Serene." 

"  I  thought  't  was  a  great  pity,"  exclaimed 
the  woman  with  pins  in  her  mouth,  bestow- 
ing them  rapidly  about  her  bonnet  ribbons, 
"  if  Sereny  could  n't  have  the  homestead  to 
bring  up  her  boy  in  !  " 

"  You  said  folks  never  found  new  wills !  " 
observed  a  neighbor  triumphantly. 

"  Well,"  retorted  the  woman,  turning  her 
face  from  side  to  side  to  get  her  chin  set 
properly  in  the  bonnet  ribbons,  "  they  didrit 
find  any.  Jesse  Jeffr's  only  fooled  around 
and  did  n't  read  all  of  the  first  one.  They 
might  'a'  knowed  Jesse  Jeffr's  'ud  make  a 
mess  of  it.  He  don't  know  how  to  do  a 
thing  right." 

This  opinion  was  shielded  from  the  ear  of 
Mrs.  Jesse.  She  was  busy  nodding  her 


104  SERENA 

leghorn  bonnet  and  exchanging  parting  civil- 
ities with  several  old  neighbors. 

But  Little  Jimmy  Holmes's  wife  had 
flown  upstairs,  and  interfered  with  Jesse 
Jeffries  and  Sister  McGafferty  and  a  num- 
ber of  others.  Serena  lay  upon  a  bed,  and 
the  air  reeked  with  camphor. 

"  She 's  overcome  like,"  explained  Uncle 
Jesse. 

"  Let  me  get  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes. 
Having  got  to  her,  Mrs.  Holmes  raised 
Serena's  head  on  her  arm,  and  began  to 
laugh. 

"  She  's  comin'  out  of  it  now,"  observed 
Sister  McGafferty.  "  All  of  you  'd  better 
go  downstairs  except  Sister  Holmes  and 
me.  Let  her  be  without  disturbin'  a  while. 
We  '11  have  plenty  of  other  chances  to  enjoy 
Sister  Heddin's  company." 

The  neighbors  and  Jesse  went  submis- 
sively downstairs,  but  Little  Jimmy  Holmes's 
wife  kept  on  laughing  with  some  effort,  as 
if  she  felt  afraid  of  ending  in  a  sob. 


SERENA  105 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  '11  be  in  the  neigh- 
borhood again,  Serene  !  "  she  said.  "  Things 
would  n't  never  been  right  in  this  world  if 
they'd  turned  out  the  other  way.  Don't 
look  at  me  like  you  's  thinkin'  of  the  dead. 
But  rouse  up  and  feel  better.  There  's  your 
Aunt  Lindy  and  Hod  standin'  at  the  gate  : 
I  can  see  'em  through  the  winder.  They  're 
talkin'  mighty  serious,  and  she  don't  look 
so  well  satisfied  as  she  did.  But  you  must 
do  well  by  her,  Sereny.  Give  her  the  old 
spinnin'-wheel  that  stands  in  the  smoke- 
house !  " 


EOSE   DAY 

TIME,  1875 

"  I  DO  believe  this  is  rose  day,"  said  In- 
fant, standing  on  the  top  step  of  the  veranda 
in  delight. 

"  I  know  it 's  soap-boiling  day,"  asserted 
her  twin  sister,  who  had  been  baptized 
Marilla  Victoria  when  she  was  baptized  In- 
fanta Isabella,  quite  forty  years  before. 
^  These  twins  entered  the  world  at  a  period 
when  flowery,  daring  names  were  the  ex- 
treme of  fashion,  and  previous  to  a  rebound 
to  plain  and  strong  Ann,  Elizabeth,  Mary, 
Hannah,  Jane,  and  their  various  combina- 
tions. Infant  came  very  near  being  labeled 
Lovey  Lucilla,  and  she  felt  thankful  for 
her  escape,  and  even  attached  to  her  di- 
minutive. 

Belle  would  never  have  suited  her  (she 


ROSE  DAY  107 

was  not  belle),  while  Infant  did  not  shame 
her  (she  was  more  or  less  an  infant  at  any 
age).  She  was  slender,  blue-eyed,  and 
smooth-skinned,  so  smooth  that  wrinkles 
could  scarcely  make  their  indentation.  And 
it  never  ceased  to  be  appropriate  for  her  to 
wear  her  hair  in  a  braid  down  her  back, 
tied  with  ribbons  the  color  of  the  dress  she 
wore.  Infant  herself  could  not  separate  the 
gray  hair  from  the  blond,  nor  did  she  care 
whether  it  was  all  blond  or  all  gray.  She 
scampered  over  a  fence  and  swung  in  the 
cherry-trees.  Her  long  tranced  girlhood 
never  ended ;  and  the  slow  life  of  the  farm, 
simple  as  grass  and  wholesome  as  new  milk, 
kept  up  the  illusion  that  time  was  eternity. 
In  their  neighborhood  these  twins  had  been 
the  Baldwin  girls  when  they  first  toddled 
into  meeting,  when  they  went  off  to  be 
educated  at  an  expensive  school,  when  they 
came  back  to  paint  and  to  play  on  a  grand 
piano,  when  their  parents  died  and  they 
took  charge  of  the  farm ;  and  the  Baldwin 


108  BOSE  DAY 

girls  would  probably  be  their  title  when 
they  should  become  contemporary  with  all 
living  grandmothers. 

Occasionally  Infant  received  a  shock  from 
the  growth  of  young  children.  It  was  so 
astonishing  to  see  a  creature  who  was  a  baby 
but  a  short  time  ago,  shooting  aloft,  long- 
armed  and  long  -  legged,  and  announcing 
itself  in  the  teens.  Such  phenomena  did  not 
astonish  Rilla,  however.  She  resented  them. 
Though  she  had  the  same  fair  complexion 
and  comely  make  as  her  sister,  a  deadly  drop 
of  acid  had  been  added  to  her  nature.  Her 
shoulders  were  bent.  She  loved  to  hear 
people  talked  about,  and  to  lift  the  corners 
of  her  nose  with  scorn.  She  felt  abused  by 
much  that  had  happened  to  her  on  this 
planet,  and  yet  too  insignificant  in  her  own 
personality  to  take  it  out  of  the  human  race 
as  she  desired  to  do.  The  freedom,  ease, 
and  scope  of  mature  unmarried  womanhood 
were  in  no  wise  appreciated  by  her.  These 
traits  made  Rilla  an  uncomfortable  house- 


ROSE  DAY  109 

mate,  especially  in  winter,  when  the  twins 
were  snowed  in  with  their  books  and  trim 
housekeeping.  Still,  Infant  loved  Rilla' s 
sourness  along  with  Rilla.  There  was  strong 
diversion  in  being  scolded,  and  she  always 
felt  such  a  delicious  warmth  around  her 
heart  when  she  made  it  up  with  Rilla  and 
gave  her  a  handsome  present,  or  took  double 
turns  at  the  cooking. 

Rilla  was  very  parsimonious,  and  felt 
bound  to  distort  herself  with  aged  gowns  and 
long-hoarded  hats.  But  Infant  felt  unhappy 
in  any  color  except  that  tint  of  gray  which 
has  the  thought  of  wine  in  it.  On  this  very 
rose  day,  though  it  was  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  wore  a  clinging  gray  challie  dress. 
And  a  good  background  it  would  be  for  all 
the  roses  Infant  could  hang  upon  it. 

Nothing  made  Rilla  lift  the  corners  of 
her  nose  higher  than  Infant's  flower  days. 
But  as  Rilla  would  be  lifting  her  nose  any- 
how, and  could  really  scent  no  harm  in  these 
silent  festivals,  Infant  continued  to  observe 


110  ROSE  DAY 

them  year  after  year,  and  to  afford  her  sister 
that  triumphant  sense  of  superiority  which 
we  all  have  upon  beholding  others'  absurdi- 
ties. 

There  was  crocus  day,  when  the  first 
flowers  broke  the  sod  and  made  heavenly 
beauty  in  the  dark  spring.  Infant  decked 
herself  with  them,  and  put  them  on  the  din- 
ner-table. More  abundantly  satisfactory, 
however,  was  lilac  day.  It  took  a  critical 
eye  to  discern  the  exact  date.  If  the  lilacs 
browned  about  the  edges,  then,  alas  !  lilac 
day  had  slipped  past.  They  were  not  to  be 
gathered  too  soon,  either,  if  their  full  soul 
of  fragrance  was  to  be  enjoyed.  On  lilac 
day  Infant  walked  under  burdens  of  laven- 
der bloom.  The  walls,  the  pictures,  breathed 
lilacs.  And  at  night  she  went  to  sleep  crush- 
ing her  face  into  a  nest  of  bunches,  so  that 
she  had  lilac  dreams,  and  drew  the  sweetness 
into  herself,  like  an  Eastern  woman  absorb- 
ing roses. 

But  the  best  day  of  all  was  rose  day.    Be- 


ROSE  DAY  111 

fore  it  arrived  she  had  always  ready  a  posy 
of  poems  from  Keats,  Wordsworth,  Jean  In- 
gelow,  and  Whittier,  and  read  them  in  the 
morning  while  the  dew  was  on  the  world. 
The  Baldwin  girls  cultivated  a  great  many 
roses.  Rilla  could  hardly  miss  from  her 
rose-water  and  home-made  attar  and  rose 
preserves  the  heaps  which  Infant  cut  for  her 
nonsense. 

There  was  not  a  nicer  day  in  the  year 
than  rose  day,  if  Killa  would  only  abstain 
from  boiling  soap  on  that  date.  The  sisters 
had  inherited  seventy-five  thousand  dollars 
apiece,  but  they  made  their  own  soap  every 
spring  of  refuse  fats  and  the  lye  of  wood- 
ashes.  It  could  have  been  made  cold  in  the 
cellar,  if  that  way  had  not  been  too  easy  for 
Rilla.  She  held  it  a  movable  festival,  like 
rose  day,  and  no  one  will  ever  gauge  the 
degree  of  satisfaction  she  felt  in  haling  her 
flower-wreathed  sister  up  to  the  vile-smelling 
caldron  to  keep  the  stirrer  going  while  she 
set  about  other  duties.  Rilla  honored  pioneer 


112  ROSE  DAY 

custom  and  her  grandmother's  memory  by 
performing  her  soap  incantations  in  the  old- 
est, mouldiest,  most  completely  shattered 
garment  she  possessed.  This  was  a  red 
wool  delaine,  so  abased  from  its  ruby  tone 
that  the  drippings  of  the  lye  gourd  could 
find  little  remaining  space  to  burn  or  spot. 

They  boiled  soap  in  a  huge  iron  kettle  in 
the  chip  yard.  The  blue  wood  smoke  would 
envelop  Rilla  and  her  tarnished  tatters  as 
she  ladled  and  tested,  until  she  looked  witch- 
like  to  passers  along  the  road.  Her  unhappy 
victim,  the  slim  woman  in  gray,  with  a  rope 
of  roses  wound  spirally  around  her  from 
head  to  foot,  a  burden  of  roses  on  her  bosom, 
and  roses  studded  thickly  along  the  band  of 
her  hat,  sat  on  the  corded  wood  as  far  as 
Rilla  would  allow  from  the  soap,  alternately 
inhaling  their  odor  and  rejecting  the  alkali 
steam.  If  Infant  had  to  stir  the  soap,  she 
would  have  a  long-handled  stirrer.  The  hot 
sun,  beating  on  the  chip  yard  and  her  huge 
hat,  smote  also  the  roses,  and  amidst  their 


ROSE  DAY  113 

dying  fragrance  she  had  sad  thoughts  on 
the  disappointments  of  life.  So  there  was 
nothing  but  the  morning  of  rose  day  which 
Rilla  did  not  spoil. 

But  this  anniversary  Infant  felt  a  sudden 
uplifting  of  courage  within  herself  when  her 
twin  announced  the  soap  orgy. 

"  My  soap-boiling  will  not  come  any  more 
on  rose  day,"  she  put  forth  strongly.  "  And 
I  think  I  will  pay  Enos  Robb's  wife  to  make 
up  my  share  of  the  fat  and  lye  after  this, 
Rilla." 

"  I  would,"  said  Rilla  sarcastically,  "  par- 
ticularly as  Enos  Robb  and  his  wife  and 
children  don't  batten  on  us  already.  Give 
them  the  piano  and  the  best  parlor  chairs 
and  the  solid  coffee  service  while  you  are 
about  it." 

"  Why,  Rilla,  I  did  n't  propose  to  give 
her  my  share  of  the  soap.  But  it  would  be 
cheaply  got  rid  of  that  way.  Yes,"  exclaimed 
Infant,  with  sudden  recklessness,  "  I  would 
rather  buy  soap,  and  pay  out  money  to  have 


114  ROSE  DAY 

this  dirty  stuff  carted  off,  than  ever  smell  it 
again  while  I  live.  Let  us  make  a  new 
rule,  and  give  our  fat  and  ashes  to  the 
Kobbs.  They  have  farmed  for  us  ever  since 
father  died,"  Infant  pleaded,  "  and  whatever 
you  say,  Rilla,  I  know  you  have  the  greatest 
confidence  in  them." 

"  The  poorhouse  wagon  is  never  going  to 
call  for  me,"  said  Killa  decidedly.  "You 
can  go  and  build  a  fire  under  the  kettle, 
while  I  carry  some  more  water  to  pour  on 
the  ash  hopper.  That  lye  is  strong  enough 
to  bear  up  a  setting  of  eggs,  but  we  may 
need  some  more  a  little  weaker." 

"  Eilla,  I  am  as  firm  as  the  ash  hopper 
itself.  You  can't  shake  me  any  more  than 
you  could  our  brick  smoke-house.  I  won't 
help  make  any  more  soap  —  especially  on 
rose  day,"  added  Infant  to  herself.  "  I 
don't  see  any  sense  in  it." 

"  But  you  can  see  sense  in  spoiling  dozens 
of  good  roses  to  load  yourself  up  with  like  a 
mad  Ophelia.  You  feel  above  all  the  asso- 


ROSE  DAY  115 

ciations  of  wash  day,  though  the  Princess 
Nausicaa  did  n't." 

"  Oh,  Eilla,  I  don't  feel  above  anything. 
I  merely  feel  under  that  soap  kettle,  and  as 
if  it  would  crush  my  soul  out,  as  the  shields 
crushed  Tarpeia,  if  I  did  n't  throw  it  off." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  make  soap,"  said 
Rilla,  whitening  with  intense  disapproval  of 
the  liberty  her  twin  proposed  to  grasp. 
"  You  are  not  a  minor,  and  if  you  were,  I  'm 
not  your  guardian.  But  if  you  propose  to 
go  to  yourself  and  leave  me  to  myself,  we 
both  know  what  belongs  to  us,  and  it  is 
easily  done." 

This  time-worn  hint,  which  in  her  girl- 
hood used  to  startle  and  distress  Infant  so 
much,  made  but  the  slightest  impression  on 
her  hearing  now,  as  she  leaned  over  the 
veranda  railing  to  look  at  the  roses.  There 
were  such  abundant  stacks  of  them :  she 
might  cut  and  pile  them  into  a  pyramid 
almost  as  tall  as  herself.  Such  smooth, 
sweet  tea-roses,  such  crimson  velvet-petaled 


116  ROSE  DAY 

Jacqueminots,  blush  and  white  so  fragrant 
you  would  be  willing  to  drown  yourself  in  a 
sea  of  their  scent ;  yellow  roses  piercingly 
delightful,  Prairie  Queens  creeping  all  over 
the  front  of  the  house,  old  hundred-leaved 
varieties,  having  always  in  their  depths  a 
reminder  of  grandmother's  chests  and  long, 
long  past  days.  There  were  eighteen  dis- 
tinct families  of  roses,  each  family  a  mighty 
tribe,  marshaled  before  Infant  on  lawn  and 
dewy  stretch  of  garden.  It  was  rose  day. 
She  would  not  let  herself  think  of  anything 
else. 

Billa  would  not  come  to  the  embowered 
dinner-table  which  Infant  prepared  so  care- 
fully, and  to  which  she  called  her  sister  ex- 
actly as  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

Rose  day  never  interfered  with  Infant's 
duties.  Her  conscience  acquitted  her  of 
shirking.  Often  in  dead  winter-time,  when 
the  snow  piled  up,  and  Enos  Eobb's  family 
settled  down  to  the  enjoyment  of  colds  and 
rheumatism,  she  fed  all  the  stock  herself. 


ROSE  DAY  117 

Rilla  turned  her  back  on  Infant's  several 
approaches,  and  dipped  lye  with  a  savagely 
noisy  gourd  to  quench  Infant's  voice.  Slugs 
and  ants  in  the  roses,  and  even  mildew,  were 
no  drawback  at  all  to  rose  day  compared  to 
Rilla.  Habits  of  endurance  become  proof 
armor  to  one's  sensibilities  in  the  course  of 
life,  however;  so  Infant  wandered  off  and 
absorbed  the  beauty  of  that  day  almost  as 
completely  as  if  she  did  so  with  Rilla's 
.  approval.  There  was  tremulous  heat  over 
the  meadows.  The  huge  and  strictly  tended 
garden  was  a  world  by  itself.  Beyond  that 
stretched  their  orchard,  having  a  run  of 
clear  water  winding  through  it,  all  thickly 
tufted  along  the  margins  with  mint. 

Infant  stepped  upon  the  spongy  lichens 
of  the  fence  and  rested  her  arms  on  the  top 
rail,  while  she  looked  along  the  narrow  coun- 
try thoroughfare.  The  sweet  green  world 
was  dear  enough  to  be  pressed  in  her  arms. 
Mingled  mint  and  rose  scents  were  satisfy- 
ing. The  noble  strength  of  their  Norman 


118  ROSE  DAY 

colts  pasturing  in  the  stock  meadow  was 
beautiful  to  the  eye.  Infant  loved  to  hear 
the  pounding  of  those  tufted  feet,  and  to 
note  the  brilliant  blackness  or  gray  dappling 
of  the  young  creatures'  coats  glistening  in 
the  sun.  She  did  not  expect  anything  more 
unusual  to  happen  on  this  rose  day  than  her 
rebellion  against  Rilla  and  the  splendor  of 
the  weather. 

But  who  should  come  suddenly  riding 
along  the  road,  as  if  he  had  an  appointment 
with  Infant,  and  meant  to  keep  it  the  mo- 
ment she  set  her  foot  on  the  rail,  but  the 
Honorable  Truman  Condit,  who  many  years 
before  rode  as  instantaneously  out  of  her 
sight !  She  knew  him  in  a  flash,  although 
his  hair  showed  gray  around  the  ears,  and 
much  experience  had  added  unspeakably  to 
his  personality.  He  was  on  a  Condit  horse, 
evidently  riding  around  to  look  at  his  old 
neighborhood.  There  was  a  great  tribe  of 
the  Condits,  all  well-to-do,  high-headed  peo- 
ple. The  Honorable  Truman  had  been  the 


ROSE  DAY  119 

local  bright  young  man  of  his  generation. 
He  went  west,  where,  Infant  heard,  he  be- 
came a  Senator  and  did  tremendous  things. 

She  was  suddenly  conscious  that  her  rose- 
studded  braid  was  not  wound  up  in  a  decent 
lump  as  she  wore  it  before  her  class  of 
young  ladies  in  Sunday-school.  She  felt 
contemptible  and  out  of  her  place  in  the 
human  procession,  although  the  Honorable 
Truman  turned  his  horse  straight  into  the 
fence  corner  to  shake  hands  with  her. 

"  Pretty  nearly  the  same  Infant  Baldwin," 
he  remarked.  "  But  I  do  see  some  lines  on 
your  face." 

"  I  suppose  I  've  vegetated  instead  of 
lived  all  the  time  you  have  been  doing  so 
much,"  said  Infant. 

"  Oh,  I  have  n't  been  doing  so  much." 

"  We  heard  you  had." 

"  We  means  Eilla  and  you.  And  you 
did  n't  marry  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Infant,  feeling  it  a  stinging 
indignity  that  he  should  mention  it,  after 


120  ROSE  DAY 

that  courtship  so  long  ago  buried.  He  had 
married,  and  raised  a  family  out  west. 
Billa  was  probably  right  when  she  said 
one  woman  was  the  same  as  another  to  a 
man. 

"  And  how  is  Rilla  ?  Is  she  as  hard  on 
you  as  she  used  to  be  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Billa  was  never  hard  on  me.  She 
is  quite  well,  thank  .you.  You're  coming 
up  to  the  house  to  make  us  a  call  and  take 
tea,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  would." 

Infant  looked  anxiously  at  the  westering 
sun.  She  hoped  Eilla  would  have  the  cold 
soap  cut  into  cakes  and  boxed,  and  herself 
bathed,  clothed,  and  in  her  right  mind, 
before  the  Honorable  Truman  Condit  rode 
up  to  their  door. 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you  first, 
though,"  he  added.  "  And  my  way  is  to  go 
right  to  the  point.  Why  did  you  never 
marry  ?  " 

"  Come  to  that,"  retorted  Infant,  a  spar- 


BOSE  DAY  121 

kle  breaking  through  her  face,  "  why  did 
you  marry  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  because  you  would  n't 
have  me,  and  in  the  second  place,  because  I 
found  a  very  good  wife  where  I  went.  I  Ve 
been  a  widower  now  several  years,  and  the 
boys  are  settled.  I  'm  loose  from  business 
for  almost  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  back 
here  to  look  at  the  old  neighborhood  before 
spending  some  years  abroad.  Your  never 
marrying  has  revived  certain  things.  Maybe 
you've  forgotten." 

Among  her  other  thoughts,  Infant  was 
conscious  of  recollecting  how  often  she  had 
wished  to  go  abroad  if  only  some  happy 
friend  could  go  along  as  a  cushion  betwixt 
Rilla  and  her.  She  unfastened  with  a  furtive 
hand  the  rose  rope  wound  about  her,  but, 
unwilling  to  let  so  many  precious  roses  go, 
gathered  it  into  loops  on  her  arm. 

"  Did  you  ever  know,"  pursued  the  Hon- 
orable Truman,  "  that  Rilla  told  me  you 
were  going  to  marry  one  of  the  Pierson 
boys?" 


122  ROSE  DAY 

"  No  !  "  Infant  cried  out  so  suddenly  that 
the  horse  started. 

"  She  did,"  said  the  Honorable  Truman. 

"  Why,"  stammered  Infant,  "  how  could 
you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  hot-headed  boy  with  more  pride 
than  sense.  I  would  n't  say  anything  to  you 
about  it." 

"  I  remember  your  quarreling  with  the 
Piersons." 

"  Were  n't  you  engaged  to  one  of  them  ?  " 

"No;  which  one?" 

"  Abner." 

"  I  never  was  engaged  to  anybody  except 
you,"  she  retorted,  burning  hotly  in  the  face, 
"  and  I  did  not  admire  that  experience  when 
you  dropped  me  and  went  off.  And  I  don't 
yet,  though  you  do  lay  the  blame  on  poor 
Rilla." 

Plenty  of  time  had  Rilla  for  all  the  do- 
mestic countermarching  she  wished  to  per- 
form before  that  conference  by  the  fence 
ended.  Unusually  stirring  were  her  tactics 


ROSE  DAY  123 

too,  for  all  the  Robbs  were  haled  up  from 
the  tenant-house — Mrs.  Robb  to  cook  a 
supper,  and  the  young  Robbs  not  actually 
farming  to  run  on  errands. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  Enos  came  riding 
his  plough-horses  to  the  great  barn.  He 
had  turned  off  early  on  purpose  to  intercept 
Miss  Infant  and  find  out  what  changes  were 
to  be  made.  Infant  hastened  up  the  or- 
chard, while  the  Honorable  Truman  hastened 
to  the  same  destination  by  the  road.  She 
saw  him  leading  his  horse  up  the  avenue, 
and  felt  impatient  at  Enos  Robb's  interrup- 
tion. 

"  Sudden  doin's  up  to  the  house,"  said 
Enos,  wiping  his  forehead  with  the  back  of 
his  hand.  "  'Pears  like  Miss  Rill 's  made 
up  her  mind  about  Brother  Sanderson  at 
last." 

"  Is  Brother  Sanderson  at  the  house  ?  " 
inquired  Infant. 

"  He  is,  for  a  fact,  and  the  license  and 
the  preacher  with  him.  Now  what  I  want 


124  ROSE  DAY 

to  know,  and  what  I  ought  to  been  con- 
sulted, Miss  Infant,  seeing  how  long  I  been 
here,  is  this  —  what 's  you  and  me  going  to 
do  afterward  ?  Is  it  an  interference  ?  " 

"  Enos,"  said  Infant,  with  a  gasp,  "  this 
is  almost  as  sudden  to  me  as  it  is  to  you. 
But  considering  Rilla's  firm  character,  do 
you  think  she  would  let  any  new  person 
interfere  with  her  established  plans  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  replied  Enos,  grinning. 

Billa  was  standing  before  the  dresser  in 
her  room  arrayed  in  her  stiffest  silk.  She 
looked  with  composure  upon  her  twin,  who 
shut  the  bedroom  door,  and  hurried  up  to 
embrace  her. 

"  It  was  the  best  boiling  of  soap  I  ever 
had,"  said  Rilla,  warding  the  fading  roses 
away  from  her  silk. 

"Rilla  dear,  you  might  have  told  me 
what  you  meant  to  do  this  evening.  But 
I  am  so  glad  !  I  could  n't  bear  the  thoughts 
of  leaving  you  before,  but  now  I  can." 

"  I  saw  Truman    Condit    come  into    the 


ROSE  DAY  125 

yard  with  you,"  said  Billa.  "  He  's  grown 
fat.  It  must  have  agreed  with  him  to  go 
west." 

"  This  has  been  a  great  rose  day," 
said  her  twin,  undoing  all  traces  of  the  day's 
festival,  and  piling  them  carefully  in  a  waste- 
basket  where  they  could  make  no  litter. 
"  Won't  you  let  me  kiss  you,  Billa  ?  " 

The  acquiescent  nip  which  Billa  gave 
Infant  took  up  a  world  of  forgiveness  which 
Billa  never  felt. 

"  And  do  you  think,  dear,"  Infant  ven- 
tured, "  we  '11  ever  wish  we  had  n't  ?  We  've 
lived  so  long  with  each  other.  Truman 
Condit  and  Brother  Sanderson  are  really 
strangers  to  our  ways." 

"I  think,"  replied  Billa,  with  decision, 
"  that  Brother  Sanderson  will  never  have  a 
rose  day  while  he  lives  on  my  farm ;  and 
when  I  say  it  is  soap-boiling  day  it  will  be 
soap-boiling  day,  and  Brother  Sanderson 
will  stir  the  soap." 


KENTUCKY 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

TIME,  1857 

THE  perfection  of  summer  noon,  when 
acres  of  corn  tassels  seemed  in  a  trance  and 
the  blueness  of  far-off  hills  suggested  in- 
cense rising,  was  not  without  its  effect  on 
Miss  Sally  Vandewater  as  she  rode  toward 
General  Poynton's  plantation.  The  turn- 
pike, stretching  its  ash-colored  ribbon  across 
the  greenness  of  the  country,  rang  like  a 
causeway  of  rock  to  the  beat  of  horseshoes. 

From  this  plantation  or  from  that,  as  hill 
or  sweep  of  woodland  revealed  them,  shone 
marble  stones  in  family  burial  lots. 

Occasionally  Miss  Sally  met  girls  or  young 
men  on  dashing  horses,  and  these  merry 
people  saluted  her  cordially  in  passing.  But 
in  all  that  blue-grass  region,  where  each 
member  of  every  comfortable  family  had  his 


130  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

own  gaited  saddle-horse,  there  was  not  a 
finer  animal  than  Miss  Sally's  Pacer.  Cae- 
sar and  his  fortune  were  aboard  when  she 
mounted.  Pacer  was  her  entire  capital  in 
life,  carrying  her  on  visits  among  good  fam- 
ilies whereby  she  subsisted,  and  furnishing 
colts  for  her  pin-money.  The  camel  is  not 
more  to  the  Bedouin.  Had  Pacer  failed 
Miss  Sally  in  any  point,  she  must  have  fallen 
into  the  straits  of  a  reduced  gentlewoman, 
instead  of  carrying  a  high  head  through  all 
the  best  houses  of  the  county. 

She  rode  at  a  steady  hand  gallop  through 
the  sultry  day,  though  a  young  colt  whinnied 
behind  her ;  increasing  her  speed  past  one 
pillared  brick  house  set  far  up  an  avenue. 
The  woods  about  it  were  close  trimmed  and 
free  from  underbrush,  like  all  Kentucky 
woodland.  Some  evergreens  made  gloom 
about  its  eaves,  but  not  such  gloom  as  the 
reputation  of  the  house  itself.  There  lived  a 
man  who  was  said  to  have  a  chain  stretched 
across  his  cellar.  He  bought  up  slaves  and 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  131 

handcuffed  them  in  pairs  along  this  chain 
until  he  was  ready  to  drive  them  to  market, 
when  a  band  of  musicians  was  employed  to 
lead  their  march,  cheerfully  playing  "  Yankee 
Doodle."  The  house  was  worse  than  haunted. 
Both  whites  and  blacks  hurried  past  its 
handsome  gate  with  abhorrence  —  spot  of 
mystery  and  abomination  on  those  pleasant 
corn  lands. 

Miss  Sally  was  anxious  to  get  out  of  her 
riding-skirt  at  Poynton's,  and  bully  the  black 
boy  who  would  come  to  take  her  bridle. 
The  wealthiest  slave-owner  in  Kentucky 
could  not  exact  more  deference.  Everybody 
humored  her.  In  a  country  where  hospital- 
ity was  a  social  religion,  her  little  visits  of  a 
month  or  two  were  welcomed  even  when 
they  crowded  dearer  guests.  And  in  spite 
of  fine  traits  concealed  under  the  haughty 
airs  of  a  nomad,  well  did  she  know  how  to 
crowd  people  distasteful  to  her. 

When  she  turned  into  Poynton's  avenue, 
the  white  pillared  mansion  seemed  to  doze. 


132  A  KENTUCKY  PBINCESS 

The  quarters  stretched  in  a  long  row  field- 
ward.  Miss  Sally  could  not  see  the  kitchen, 
standing  by  itself  behind  the  great  house. 
No  drowsiness  had  settled  there.  A  stir  of 
preparation  was  going  on,  not  only  for  the 
two  o'clock  dinner,  but  for  the  wedding  yet 
a  week  distant.  Miss  Sally  had  omitted  one 
place  in  her  rounds,  and  shortened  her  visit 
at  another,  that  she  might  be  at  Poynton's 
in  time  to  gather  every  detail  of  the  wedding. 

A  yellow  boy  skipped  out  to  help  her  at 
the  mounting-block.  He  would  have  lounged 
to  meet  his  master.  Approvingly  she  saw 
him  pull  his  hat  to  her. 

"  Miss  Sally,  you  sho'ly  bake  you'se'f  to- 
day!" 

"  Yes,  it 's  hot,  Peach.  And  if  you  're 
concerned  for  me  I  hope  you'll  feel  more 
concern  about  Pacer."  Miss  Vande water's 
anxiety  about  her  property  grew  in  the  ratio 
of  its  approach  to  a  crib. 

"  Sam  '11  rub  her  down,"  promised  Peachy. 
"  I  '11  tell  Sam  to  give  her  a  good  feed." 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  133 

"  You  attend  to  it  yourself,"  commanded 
Miss  Sally. 

"  I  is  n't  a  stable  -  boy,"  remonstrated 
Peachy.  "  I  'se  a  house-boy." 

"  House-boy  or  stable-boy,  you  mind  what 
I  tell  you.  In  my  father's  time  —  and  he 
owned  fifty  —  our  boys  did  whatever  they 
wo?e  told  to  do." 

"  Ya-as,  m'm." 

"And  the  poor  little  colt,"  said  Miss 
Sally,  making  that  infant's  discomfort  her 
own,  —  "I  don't  want  my  colt  kicked  to 
death  among  a  lot  of  wild  shod  heels." 

"  He  go  with  his  mammy.  No  ha'um 
evah  happen  to  you'  colts  on  this  place,  Miss 
Sally." 

"  You  see  to  it  that  none  happens  to  it 
this  time  !  All  the  family  at  home  ?  "  she 
stopped  to  inquire,  with  her  riding-skirt 
gathered  in  her  hand. 

"  Ya-as,  m'm." 

"  Has  my  trunk  been  carried  up  ?  I  sent 
it  this  morning." 


134  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

"  Ya-as,  m'm." 

"  Who  's  here?  "  demanded  Miss  Vande- 
water,  stiffening  her  figure. 

Peachy  followed  her  eye  to  the  stable- 
yard,  where  stood  a  vehicle  she  never  beheld 
with  calmness.  It  was  the  handsome  and 
shining  carriage  of  Judge  Poynton,  from 
the  county  seat. 

Peachy  grinned.  "  Miss  Judge  come  out 
this  mawnin'  to  spend  the  day." 

So  sore  does  one's  pride  become  when 
chafed  by  poverty,  that  Miss  Sally  hated  that 
plump  and  opulent  woman  for  naught  but 
being  plump  and  opulent ;  though  she  would 
have  given  as  her  reason  the  airs  of  a  woman 
married  above  her  wildest  expectations. 

"You  can  fetch  my  riding-skirt  to  my 
room,  Nancy,"  said  Miss  Sally  to  the  colored 
girl  who  admitted  her,  casting  it  across  the 
stair-rail  as  she  ascended.  "  I  reckon  I  go 
to  the  same  room  I  always  have." 

"  Miss  Ma'ky's  things  is  all  spread  out  in 
that  bedroom,"  apologized  Nancy. 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  135 

"  You  can  soon  move  them  out  of  the 
way." 

"  But  Miss  Maria  'bleeged  to  have  you' 
trunk  set  in  the  back  bedroom  f  o'  this  week, 
Miss  Sally." 

A  solicitous  hostess,  trailing  a  muslin 
wrapper  —  for  even  Kentucky  hospitality 
may  be  overpowered  by  the  languors  of 
summer  midday  —  met  the  guest  with  out- 
stretched hands.  Miss  Sally  permitted  her 
cheek  to  be  brushed,  and  at  once  put  the 
lady  into  the  apologetic  attitude  of  an  over- 
crowded landlord. 

"  You  ought  to  have  sent  me  word  if  it 
was  inconvenient  to  have  me  now,  Mrs. 
Poynton,  and  I  would  n't  have  skipped  the 
Moores  as  I  did." 

"  Miss  Sally,  it  is  not  inconvenient  to  have 
you  now  !  "  the  delinquent  pleaded.  "  It  is 
never  inconvenient.  Only  America's  things 
are  so  spread  out,  and  we  are  obliged  to 
keep  dressing-rooms  for  the  wedding,  and 
the  bridesmaids  !  I  thought  you  would  be 


136  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

less  annoyed  in  that  back  room  than  any- 
where else.     I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !  " 

"  The  judge's  wife  is  here  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  only  for  the  day,"  unconsciously 
conciliated  Mrs.  Poynton.  u  She  is  not 
staying.  Sue  Bet  Moore  has  been  here, 
helping  America  to  try  on.  Her  dresses  are 
all  done.  But  Sue  Bet  has  gone." 

"  I  knew  Sue  Bet  was  to  be  one  of  the 
bridesmaids,"  said  Miss  Sally.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  mention  bridesmaids  to  a  wo- 
man of  her  thorough  information. 

"  We  have  all  been  lying  down ;  the  day 
is  so  sultry.  We  shall  not  have  America's 
things  filling  up  the  chambers  much  longer. 
I  feel  like  giving  her  all  the  rooms  in  the 
house  —  yes,  the  plantation  itself  !  If  you 
can  only  make  yourself  comfortable  a  few 
days,  we  can  change  your  room  after  the 
wedding." 

"  The  back  bedroom  makes  not  the  slight- 
est difference  in  the  world  to  me,  Mrs. 
Poynton  "  — 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  137 

"  O  Miss  Sally,  I  am  so  glad  it  makes  no 
difference !  " 

—  "  but  I  am  sorry  I  came  at  such  an 
inconvenient  time  !  " 

Thus  the  duet  went  on,  until  Mrs.  Poyn- 
ton  accepted  as  positive  beneficence  Miss 
Sally  Vandewater's  willingness  to  descend 
from  the  back  chamber,  dine  with  the  family, 
and  sit  down  in  the  parlor. 

Miss  Sally  had  kept  her  sprightliness  and 
her  youthful  shape.  Her  muslin  dress  was 
cut  low,  and  her  shoulders  were  concealed 
by  a  bertha  of  lace.  Fine  embroidered  un- 
dersleeves  made  delicate  frills  about  her 
folded  hands.  The  curling-iron  had  created 
two  large  spirals  at  each  temple,  but  the 
rest  of  her  hair  was  pinned  in  a  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  head. 

America  Poynton  came  into  the  parlor  in 
her  tight-fitting  habit  of  black  velvet,  and 
sat  down  with  the  guests,  holding  her  riding- 
whip,  her  gauntlets,  and  tall  hat. 

"Are  you  going  to  ride  in  this  heat?" 
inquired  her  aunt,  the  judge's  wife. 


138  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

"  We  always  ride  Thursday  afternoons, 
about  four  o'clock,  if  the  weather  is  fine," 
America  replied. 

She  looked  no  less  cool  and  white  in  the 
heavy  fabric  than  in  a  gold  dotted  vaporous 
tissue  which  she  had  worn  at  dinner.  Her 
black  eyes  moved  with  languid  interest  from 
speaker  to  speaker  as  the  visiting  chat  ran 
on.  America  Poynton  was  called  the  proud- 
est girl  who  ever  appeared  in  the  county 
seat  from  surrounding  plantations.  The 
manners  of  this  tall  beauty  were  considered 
too  quiet  by  romping  young  people  who 
danced,  drove,  and  flirted  to  the  limit  of 
their  privileges ;  yet  she  was  sovereign 
among  them,  and  ruled  by  a  look  while 
others  expended  noisy  effort.  It  was  told 
of  her  that  she  often  sat  veiled  in  her  room 
to  save  her  complexion  from  sun  glare  and 
wind,  so  matchless  was  it.  She  had  a  robe 
of  black  curls  in  which  she  could  wrap  her- 
self when  her  maid  let  it  down  to  brush. 
America  was  General  Poyn ton's  only  child. 


A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS  139 

She  had  inherited  from  her  grandmother  a 
plantation  adjoining  her  father's,  with  more 
than  a  hundred  slaves.  When  she  went  to 
boarding-school  in  the  county  town,  one  of 
her  servants  led  to  her  every  pleasant  Fri- 
day evening  a  milk-white  mule,  saddled 
and  bridled  with  silk,  fine  leather,  and 
silver. 

Though  above  such  pastime  as  flirtation, 
America  had  more  offers  than  any  other  girl 
in  her  set.  Her  low,  slow  voice  never  re- 
counted these  conquests,  but  the  victims  pub- 
lished themselves,  wondering  whom  America 
Poynton  would  marry,  since  she  was  so  hard 
to  suit.  When  she  accepted  Ross  Carr, 
therefore,  the  astonishment  was  general.  He 
was  good  enough  for  some  girls,  but  hardly 
good  enough  for  America  Poynton.  He 
had  also  been  a  wild  youth,  but  people  said 
he  was  settling  down.  The  Carrs  ranked 
somewhat  below  the  Poynton s,  and  Ross  had 
no  plantation  of  his  own.  Yet  when  the 
community  thought  it  over,  they  were  willing 


140  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

to  accept  him  as  America's  husband  if  he 
proved  a  credit  to  her. 

"  Miss  Maria,"  said  Nancy,  coming  to  the 
door  with  a  face  full  of  meaning,  "  Miss 
Becky  Inchbald  's  done  lighted  down  by  the 
quarters,  and  tied  her  horse." 

"  What  does  she  want  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Poynton,  disturbed. 

"  Dumio,  Miss  Maria." 

"  Why  does  n't  she  come  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  She  hardly  ever  came  to  the  house 
in  her  best  days,"  murmured  the  judge's 
wife. 

"  Perhaps  she 's  sick,"  continued  Mrs. 
Poynton.  "  Some  of  you  run  and  see." 

"  Peachy  done  been  down  to  her,  and  she 
say  she  just  waitin'  there  in  the  shade. 
Miss  Becky  got  her  baby  'long  with  her." 

The  general's  wife  heard  this  with  rising 
dignity. 

"  Don't  annoy  her,"  she  commanded. 
"  Let  the  poor  girl  alone." 

"  Law,    Miss   Maria,    nobody  won't   say 


A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS  141 

nothin'  to  Miss  Becky.  But  all  the  little 
niggehs  has  come  out  to  look  at  her." 

"  Go  yourself  and  see  if  she  needs  any- 
thing." 

"  I  have  heard,"  remarked  Miss  Vande- 
water,  through  the  silence  which  followed, 
"  that  Becky  Inchbald,  for  all  she  was  so 
close-mouthed  at  first,  threatens  now  to 
carry  her  child  to  its  father." 

Mrs.  Poynton,  with  an  instant's  pause  on 
the  subject,  hoped  he  could  be  found  and 
made  to  do  his  duty.  The  judge's  wife 
heard  with  a  mere  lifting  of  the  eyebrows. 
She  thought  it  scarcely  a  fit  topic  to  mention 
before  America.  But  America's  plane  was 
so  much  above  Becky  Inchbald  that  she  had 
never  even  disapproved  of  the  girl. 

Becky  Inchbald's  people  were  not  poor 
whites,  for  they  owned  land  and  slaves  ;  but 
their  raw  unfitness  for  encountering  the  old 
stock  held  them  on  the  verge  of  society. 
That  Becky  was  uneducated  was  her  own 
fault.  She  had  become  the  mother  of  a 


142  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

hapless  baby  and  the  scandal  of  the  neigh- 
borhood before  America  Poynton's  engage- 
ment was  announced. 

"  She  's  spiteful  about  that  baby,"  pur- 
sued Miss  Sally.  "  There  11  be  trouble 
somewhere  before  sundown,  if  she 's  started 
out  with  it." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  Inchbald's  affairs 
need  disturb  us,"  suggested  the  judge's  wife, 
making  dimples  at  the  finger  roots  of  one 
hand  as  she  smoothed  her  polished  hair. 

"  Some  women  are  never  disturbed  about 
any  of  the  sin  in  the  world,"  said  Miss 
Vande water  incisively,  "  until  it  comes  into 
their  houses  and  takes  their  children  by  the 
throat." 

"That  can  never  be  said  of  you,  Miss 
Sally,"  the  judge's  indolent  wife  responded, 
smiling.  Though  she  generally  bore  Miss 
Sally's  attacks  as  a  lady  should,  and  felt 
indulgent  sympathy  for  the  migratory  spin- 
ster, she  sometimes  allowed  herself  to  re- 
tort. 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  143 

"  Aunt  and  Miss  Sally,  kiss  and  make 
up,"  said  America,  with  the  deliberate  accent 
that  gave  weight  to  all  her  words.  But  with- 
out response  one  of  the  combatants  sat 
glowering,  while  the  other,  waving  a  lazy 
fan,  indicated  through  the  window  Ross  Carr 
cantering  to  his  appointment,  man  and 
steed  moving  like  one,  so  perfect  was  his 
horsemanship. 

America's  mother,  impatiently  anxious  to 
go  on  recounting  to  Miss  Sally  the  silver 
and  linen  bought  for  America's  new  home, 
resigned  herself  for  a  few  moments.  Ross 
Carr  threw  his  bridle  to  the  groom,  who  was 
walking  Miss  Poynton's  saddled  thorough- 
bred. 

He  entered  the  room.  America  gave  him 
her  hand  with  a  light  word,  and  he  stood 
holding  his  hat,  talking  to  her  elders. 

It  was  the  culminating  moment  of  her 
betrothal,  a  dot  of  time  separating  ease  and 
care-free  thoughts  from  what  followed. 

The  young  man    chatted    idly  with  four 


144  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

women,  when  another  screamed  out  behind 
him  :  — 

"  Here  it  is,  Eoss  Carr  !  So  you  Ve  got 
to  take  it,  and  no  words  betwixt  us  —  for  I 
won't  take  care  of  it  any  longer !  " 

"  Why,  Miss  Becky !  — why,  Miss  Becky ! " 
Mrs.  Poynton  herself  ran  gasping  forward 
to  interpose  between  such  scandalous  outcry 
and  America's  lover.  "  Come  away  with  me, 
Miss  Becky,  and  let  me  help  you  with  your 
baby— and  don't  speak  that  way  before 
the  gentlemen  !  " 

A  shaker  bonnet  fell  back  from  the  girl's 
hot  and  furious  face.  She  had  narrow 
sunken  temples  like  a  hen's.  Her  entire 
profile  was  chicken  beaked,  yet  a  fluff  of 
golden  down  made  her  comely.  The  wrath- 
ful rings  in  her  eyes  sent  out  their  fires 
toward  Ross  Carr. 

"  He  thinks  he  's  a  great  gentleman,  and 
he  thinks  he 's  going  to  get  a  great  lady  "  — 

"  Becky  Inchbald,  sit  down  in  that  chair !  " 
commanded  America,  standing  at  the  other 


A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS  145 

side  of  the  room.  Her  hat  and  gloves  and 
whip  lay  on  the  floor.  The  other  women, 
even  her  mother,  waited,  sitting  blanched. 

Carr  remained  with  his  hand  on  the  back 
of  the  chair,  like  a  frozen  figure,  while  Becky 
Inchbald  placed  herself  in  it  and  stretched 
the  baby  across  her  lap.  Her  first  courage 
leaving  her,  she  began  to  cry. 

The  men  of  the  west  do  not  cower  when 
found  out  in  their  sins.  Ross  Carr  stood 
six  feet  and  one  inch  high ;  a  handsome, 
light-haired  Kentuckian,  the  man  most  abun- 
dant in  vitality,  and  the  best  horseman  in 
Bourbon  County.  A  culprit  waiting  to  be 
shot,  he  looked  his  death  in  the  face,  erect, 
but  blighted  through  every  outline.  He  had 
carried  this  guilt  a  long  time,  trying  to 
shape  it  for  disclosure  ;  while  day  after  day 
continued  to  separate  him  farther  from  the 
Ross  Carr  of  the  past,  and  to  make  more  in- 
comprehensible the  deeds  which  he  inherited 
from  that  miserable  wretch. 

When  you  or  I  stand,  on  our  day  of  judg- 


146  A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS 

ment,  to  be  looked  at  through  the  dark 
medium  of  our  basest  moments,  may  some 
eye  among  our  contemners  discern  the  angel 
shape  struggling  in  remorse  and  anguish  be- 
hind the  bar. 

"  Is  this  your  child  ?  "  America  demanded 
of  her  lover,  pointing  to  it  for  his  identifi- 
cation. 

The  baby,  oppressed  by  the  jaunt,  under 
arm,  or  on  lap,  according  to  its  mother's  con- 
venience in  riding,  was  covered  all  over  its 
visible  surface  by  that  prickly  rash  which 
nurses  call  "  heat."  It  was  gowned  in  pink 
calico,  and  diffused  a  sour  odor. 

Ross  Carr  looked  down  at  it  with  the 
slighting  masculine  eye,  which  since  Saturn 
has  seen  little  to  admire  in  extremely  young 
offspring.  He  controlled  the  muscles  of  his 
lips  to  reply. 

"  I  reckon  it  is." 

"  Answer  me  on  your  word  as  a  man  —  is 
this  your  child  ?  " 

"Yes.     It  is." 


A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS  147 

"  He  knows  it 's  his,  and  he  's  got  to  take 
care  of  it  and  support  it  —  it 's  his  place  to 
take  care  of  it,  not  mine,"  sobbed  Becky,  her 
head  wagging. 

America  directed  her  face  to  Becky. 
"  Do  you  intend  to  turn  it  off  entirely  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  do  !  It 's  his,  and  he  ought  to 
keep  it ! " 

"  But  you  are  its  mother !  " 

"  I  won't  be  its  mother  !  "  exploded  Becky, 
flinging  the  ill-kept  and  wretched  infant 
about  on  her  knees  with  a  vicious  grip.  "  I  '11 
leave  it  on  a  doorstep  first !  " 

The  child  put  up  a  piteous  lip  and  uttered 
those  cries  by  which  bruised  infancy  pro- 
tests against  tormentors  whom  it  feels  but 
does  not  know. 

America  stared  at  the  girl ;  her  alabaster 
face  was  suddenly  drained  of  horror  at  the 
wrong  done  a  woman,  and  filled  with  pas- 
sionate contempt. 

"Then  I'll  be  its  mother!  Give  it  to 
me." 


148  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

She  gathered  it  off  Becky's  lap  and  laid 
its  heat-blotched  face  against  her  shoulder. 
The  tiny  creature  discharged  a  mouthful  of 
its  wretchedness  there.  America  stanched 
the  spot,  and  made  a  softer  rest  for  its  cheek 
with  her  rose-scented  handkerchief.  Her 
unconscious  sweep  of  figure  in  taking  the 
child  and  standing  up  publicly  with  it, 
thrilled  beholders  like  piercing  music  or  the 
sight  of  great  works  of  art.  The  mother- 
spirit,  which  has  brooded  for  centuries  over 
this  world  —  the  passion  to  foster  and  pro- 
tect and  train  —  shone  white  and  large  in 
her  face.  She  was  that  fair  impersonation 
men  call  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  holding 
the  outcast  to  her  breast.  She  was  Mother 
Mary,  with  a  reminder  of  the  Heavenly 
Infant  in  her  arms. 

No  one  remonstrated  or  spoke  a  word  to 
her  as  she  moved  from  the  room. 

Becky  Inchbald,  pulling  her  shaker  over 
her  face,  went  out  and  mounted  her  horse. 

America  was  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  when 


A  KENTUCKY  PEINCESS  149 

she  heard  Ross  Carr  speak  hoarsely  at  the 
foot.  She  stood  looking  at  him  over  the 
balustrade.  The  baby  was  quiet. 

"  One  word,  America !  —  It 's  all  over  — 
between  us?" 

He  could  hear  his  watch  ticking ;  and 
outdoor  sounds  buzzed  in  his  ears. 

"  No,"  answered  America.  "  It  is  not 
all  over  between  us." 

Ross  Carr  dropped  his  groping  hand  on 
the  stair  newel,  his  next  sentence  also  com- 
ing in  fragments. 

"  There  won't  be  any  use  —  Shall  I 
come  here  —  for  the  ceremony — next 
Thursday  ?  " 

"  Thursday,"  spoke  the  low,  slow  voice 
above  him,  "  at  two  o'clock,  was  the  time  we 
set." 

The  culprit  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  and  ex- 
claimed :  - 

"  America,  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to 
do!" 

"  I  want  you,"  she  said,  "  to  be  a  father 


150  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

to  your  child !  "  Her  mouth  struggled. 
She  flung  out  the  rest  in  a  wail  —  "  and 
never  speak  to  me  of  this  again !  " 

Not  fit  to  prostrate  himself  before  her  vir- 
gin motherhood,  the  tarnished  man  hid  his 
face  on  his  arm  against  the  stair-rail.  She 
carried  his  child  out  of  sight. 

There  was  scarcely  a  negro  on  the  plan- 
tation who  did  not  know  what  had  happened 
when  Ross  Carr  staggered  out  of  the  house 
and  passed  his  chafing  horse  and  the  groom 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  his  own  property. 

Baseless  mountains  which  had  been  piling 
lucent  peak  over  peak,  now  seemed  to  sink 
in  smoke  to  the  effacement  of  the  sun. 
Stretches  of  forest  and  road,  plantation  and 
dimpled  hill,  from  horizon  to  horizon,  ceased 
smiling;  for  the  day's  heat  was  about  to 
pass  off  in  drenching  rain. 

This  cloudy  interval  before  the  thunder- 
burst  was  just  the  time  for  stealing  corn  to 
roast  at  the  quarters  in  the  evening.  So 
Peachy  crept  on  all  fours  down  narrow  ave- 


A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS  151 

nues  to  avoid  agitating  the  corntops,  such 
telltales  are  the  tassel  fingers.  His  sack 
already  bulged ;  but  unexpectedly  he  came 
against  a  man  stretched  out  in  the  dirt  face 
downward  —  Miss  Ma'ky's  Mist'  Eoss 
Carr! 

Peachy  backed  away  from  the  spectacle, 
the  grinding  of  teeth  and  the  swelling  of 
veins  on  a  man's  neck !  Not  until  many 
cornstalks  screened  him  had  Peachy  the 
courage  to  burst  recklessly  down  a  slim  alley, 
spilling  his  stolen  ears,  while  corn  leaves 
slashed  his  face  with  their  edged  sabres. 
The  superstitious  African  instinctively  fled 
from  anguish  so  dumb  and  dreadful. 

While  the  county  was  shocked  by  Amer- 
ica Poynton's  adoption  of  Ross  Carr's  child, 
her  beauty  as  a  bride  softened  all  critics. 
She  went  to  live  with  her  husband  on  her 
plantation,  and  there  the  baby  grew  into 
robust  and  happy  boyhood.  Reticence  on 
the  subject  of  Becky  Inchbald  was  diffused 
through  her  small  world.  At  that  date  a 


152  A  KENTUCKY  PRINCESS 

small    world   held    all    the    acts    of    many 

lives. 

Even  Miss  Sally  Vandewater,  swelling 
her  visiting  list  with  another  hospitable  home, 
grew  into  complete  harmony  with  the  judge's 
wife  on  this  delicate  subject. 

Becky  Inchbald  went    on  a  long  visit  to    . 
Tennessee.     News  came  back  that  she  had 
married  there ;  and  in  the  course  of  years 
that  she  had  died. 

So  far  as  human  knowledge  goes,  Ross 
Carr's  wife  took  no  shrewish  revenge, 
though  a  woman  of  her  nature  must  have 
suffered  from  the  blot.  She  always  spoke 
of  his  son  as  "  our  eldest  boy,"  and  he  grew 
up  among  brothers  and  sisters  without  noting 
that  he  was  part  alien,  until  some  neighbor 
dropped  the  fact  in  his  ear.  Personally  he 
was  much  like  his  father,  whose  sin  matured 
its  bitterest  fruit  when  that  child  threw  him- 
self on  the  ground  to  sob  in  secret  agony 
because  the  beautiful  and  tender  woman  he 
loved  with  such  devotion  was  really  not  his 
mother. 


INDIANA 


THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

TIME,  1881 

TRAGEDY,  which  is  never  far  from  the 
most  prosperous  lives,  continually  trod  upon 
the  tenderest-hearted  woman  in  Fairfield. 
She  hated  Fairfield  as  a  background  to  her 
existence,  but  there  had  fate  nailed  her  for 
life.  It  was  the  forlornest  of  Indiana  rail- 
road stations,  looking  like  a  scar  on  the  face 
of  a  beautifully  wooded  country,  peopled  by 
the  descendants  of  poor  white  Carolinians 
and  Tennesseeans.  The  male  portion  of  the 
community  sat  on  the  railroad  platform  in 
yellow  jeans,  sprawling  their  naked  toes  to 
the  sun,  whittling,  and  jetting  with  the  reg- 
ularity of  fountains  upon  the  meerschaum- 
colored  boards.  The  women  might  have 
lived  lives  of  primitive  simplicity,  dignified 
by  child-bearing  and  neighborly  sympathy 


156  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

with  one  another ;  but  they  stained  their 
human  kindness  with  trivial  disagreements. 
This  one  among  them  all  felt  the  progress 
of  the  age  tearing  her  heartstrings  out  while 
her  circumstances  kept  her  at  a  standstill. 
I  do  not  say  her  life  would  have  been  more 
symmetrical  or  her  experience  richer  if  she 
had  lived  in  the  whirl.  She  was  a  plain, 
ground-loving  woman  who  enjoyed  the  com- 
panionship of  her  fruit-trees  and  flowers,  and 
worked  with  her  hands.  Indeed,  crowds 
annoyed  her,  and  she  was  undecided  what 
toilets  ought  to  be  made  for  a  large  public. 
The  striped  silk  dresses  of  her  prosperous 
days,  the  fringed  crape  shawls  and  gimp- 
edged  mantillas,  agreed  ill  with  bonnets  of 
the  passing  season,  and  she  had  more  respect 
for  what  was  rich  and  old  than  for  new  in- 
ventions. But  she  was  fiercely  ambitious 
for  her  children,  especially  her  eldest  son, 
and  for  him  in  spite  of  his  misfortune. 
The  younger  boy  and  girl  were  still  leaping 
like  colts  upon  their  few  remaining  acres, 


THE  F AIRFIELD  POET  157 

sound  in  limb  and  wind,  with  the  hopes  of 
a  future  sheathed  in  their  healthy  present, 
when  Willie  was  tall  as  a  man,  and  far  up 
in  his  teens. 

His  mother  had  a  picture  of  him  taken 
when  he  was  going  to  school  in  Cincinnati, 
under  his  uncle's  care.  At  that  time  his 
auburn  curls  were  unshorn,  and  he  was 
beautiful. 

A  few  days  before  cottons  took  their  ter- 
rific rise  during  the  civil  war,  Mr.  Harbison 
had  stocked  in  thousands  of  yards.  Those 
were  Fairfield's  best  days,  and  he  kept  a 
general  store,  making  money  so  rapidly  that 
the  lazy  people  around  him  felt  helplessly 
injured.  He  began  his  fine  brick  house, 
building  on  a  generous  and  artistic  plan,  at 
the  edge  of  Fairfield,  where  he  could  sur- 
round himself  with  fruit-trees,  and  have 
fields  for  his  cattle.  Whether  it  is  a  more 
distinct  misery  to  build  the  temple  of  your 
home  and  see  some  one  else  inhabit  it,  or  to 
shelter  yourself  for  years  in  a  house  you 


158  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

have  not  the  power  of  finishing,  the  latter 
fate  was  reserved  for  the  Harbisons.  With 
a  crash  they  came  down  from  what  had  been 
Fairfield's  opulence  nearly  to  a  level  with 
Fairfield's  poverty.  They  kept  the  house 
and  grounds  and  a  meadow,  but  under  such 
weight  of  mortgages  that  it  was  compara- 
tively no  grief  at  all  to  see  the  ornamental 
cornices  lying  around  the  partly  plastered 
parlors,  balustrades  and  newel-post  standing 
on  end  beside  the  skeleton  stairway,  and  to 
find  the  bathroom  useless  except  as  a  rub- 
bish closet.  The  man  who  had  employed 
half  of  Fairfield  was  now  obliged  to  become 
himself  an  employee,  and  the  general  verdict 
of  the  world  against  those  who  fail  was  em- 
phasized by  communistic  envy. 

But  the  habit  of  being  a  woman  of  consider- 
ation is  not  easily  forgotten.  Mrs.  Harbison 
still  made  the  village  respect  her.  She  had 
something  to  give  to  the  poorest.  She  was 
the  wife  of  a  man  who  had  made  a  fortune 
before  he  lost  it,  and  sat  in  the  state  Senate. 


THE  FAIRFIELD  POET  159 

More  than  all,  she  had  her  children,  the  eld- 
est of  them  a  continual  surprise  to  her.  He 
seemed  born  to  stir  her  pride  and  tender- 
ness to  their  depths.  He  was  tall,  fair,  and 
Eoman-f eatured,  shy  as  a  girl  toward  every 
one  but  his  mother,  and  so  ravenous  in 
mind  that  he  was  partly  through  college 
when  his  father's  reverses  brought  him 
home. 

Then  he  was  seized  with  a  spotted  fever, 
and  approached  the  next  world  so  close  that 
he  left  part  of  his  faculties  there,  and  was 
never  the  same  Willie  he  had  been  before. 
He  could  hear  nothing,  and  seldom  spoke  an 
audible  word  —  Mrs.  Harbison's  boy,  who 
was  made  to  take  the  world  by  storm  —  and 
what  had  been  the  shyness  of  a  country-bred 
youth  became  the  set-apart  seclusion  of  a 
hoofed  and  goat-eared  faun.  Willie  Harbi- 
son was  to  be  seen  whirring  as  noiseless  as  a 
bat  upon  his  bicycle  across  the  open  ground 
at  dusk.  He  was  met  coming  from  the 
woods,  silent  as  an  Indian,  and  his  eyes  were 


160  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

on   everything   in   earth  or  sky  except  the 
human  beings  just  before  him. 

Whatever  were  the  faults  of  Fairfield,  it 
loved  and  respected  Willie  Harbison,  and 
humored  his  self -withdrawal.  And  he  loved 
Fairfield  with  a  partiality  which  saw  mere 
picturesqueness  in  the  row  of  whittling  men, 
and  various  forms  of  motherhood  or  sister- 
hood in  the  women.  He  would  dismount  from 
his  wheel  to  let  the  boys  tilt  with  it  at  the 
old  warehouse.  He  loved  the  woods  ;  he 
loved  Wild-cat  and  Kitten  creeks,  which 
ploughed  rock-bedded  channels  through  the 
woods  ;  and  what  joy  in  life  he  fished  out  of 
those  waters  only  Willie  himself  knew.  He 
loved  to  watch  from  the  mill,  on  a  clear 
morning,  that  plume  of  steam  the  south-bound 
train  sent  around  the  curve,  to  watch  another 
plume  roll  over  the  first,  and  finally  to  see  the 
train  stand  suddenly  on  the  summit  of  the 
grade,  sharp-cut  against  the  sky.  All  com- 
mon life  was  pleasant  to  him.  Who  but  his 
mother  could  be  witness  that  a  double  nature 
dwelt  under  his  floury  mill  clothes  ? 


THE  FAIRFIELD  POET  161 

Willie  worked  in  the  mill  with  his  father, 
where  the  roar  of  grinding  and  bolting  and 
the  whir  of  belts  made  silent  liveliness 
around  him.  This  had  been  bitterness  to 
his  mother  —  her  Willie  should  work  with 
his  head  alone ;  but  she  accepted  it  as  the 
result  of  his  physical  misfortune. 

The  parlors  were  Willie's  workshop,  in 
-which  he  sawed,  hammered,  and  glued,  or 
put  noiseless  inventions  together.  A  car- 
penter's bench  was  set  before  two  uncased 
windows,  and  his  father's  old  store  desk  had 
fallen  to  his  unmercantile  use.  Its  lock 
was  never  opened  unless  Willie  had  some- 
thing which  he  could  force  himself  to  show 
to  his  mother.  That  ripe  instant  arriving, 
he  sought  her  in  her  kitchen,  her  garden,  or 
at  her  spinning-wheel  upstairs,  and  seized 
her  by  the  hand.  She  went  with  him  to  the 
parlors,  they  fastened  the  doors,  Willie 
undid  his  desk,  and  placed  his  paper  in  her 
fingers.  The  paper  itself  was  sometimes 
brown,  sometimes  the  blue  cap  left  from  the 


162  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

store,  sometimes  gilt-edged  note  having  pen- 
ciled landscapes  along  the  margins,  or  the 
flowers  he  rhymed  of  done  in  water-colors ; 
for  his  hand  was  as  skillful  as  his  eye  was 
discerning.  The  poems  were  usually  short, 
and  sensitive  in  rhyme  and  rhythm.  Willie's 
themes  were  the  common  sights  and  the 
common  pathos  or  humor  of  the  situations  in 
which  he  found  the  people  around  him :  his 
interpretation  of  the  flicker's  feelings ;  his 
delight  in  certain  thick  fleeces  of  grass  ;  the 
panorama  of  sky  and  field  as  it  marched 
across  his  eye ;  the  grotesque  though  heart- 
ily human  family  party  made  by  old  man 
Persons  and  his  wife,  where  half  of  their 
descendants,  unable  to  get  into  the  small 
house,  sat  on  the  fence  while  the  rest  ate 
dinner.  Willie  was  deaf,  but  he  had  in- 
ward music.  Every  smooth  and  liquid 
stanza  was  like  wine  to  his  mother.  She 
compared  his  poems  to  Burns' s,  and  could 
not  find  the  "  Mountain  Daisy  "  a  whit  bet- 
ter than  her  poet's  song  about  the  woods  in 
frost. 


THE  FAIEFIELD  POET  163 

Even  Mr.  Harbison  thought  well  of 
Willie's  performances.  They  were  smug- 
gled to  him  by  the  mother,  and  carefully 
returned  to  their  place  when  the  poet  was 
out  of  the  house.  Mr.  Harbison  knew  all 
that  was  going  on  in  the  world.  A  dozen 
times  a  year  he  left  the  grinding  of  the  mill 
to  meet  his  old  chums  at  the  capital,  or  to 
quicken  the  action  of  his  blood  in  Chicago. 
A  couple  of  stimulating  days  tinctured  and 
made  endurable  his  month  of  mill  work. 
A  man  of  luxurious  tastes  cannot  lose  his 
tastes  with  his  means.  He  was  a  judge  of 
poets,  and  said  Willie  might  as  well  take  to 
poetry  as  to  anything,  for  business  did  not 
pay  a  man  of  sound  faculties  in  these  days. 

The  hum  of  bees  could  be  heard  all 
around  this  unfinished  brick  house  growing 
mossy  at  the  gables,  and  its  shadow  was  long 
on  the  afternoon  sunshine.  It  was  that 
alert  and  happy  time  of  year  when  the 
earth's  sap  starts  new  from  winter  distilla- 
tion. 


164  THE  FAIEFIELD  POET 

You  could  hear  the  voices  of  children 
calling  in  play  as  they  loitered  home  from 
school ;  the  days  were  so  long  that  the  cows 
would  not  come  up  the  pasture  until  nearly 
seven  o'clock. 

Willie  trudged  across  lots  to  supper. 
Mrs.  Harbison  met  him  at  the  north  side  of 
the  house,  having  her  garden  knife  and  rake 
in  her  hands.  She  put  them  on  the  step- 
less  front-door  sill,  which  had  never  been 
and  never  would  be  pressed  by  the  foot  of 
an  arriving  guest.  This  stone  sill  was  high 
enough  for  a  seat,  and  she  sat  down,  tilt- 
ing her  sunbonnet  back,  and  smiling  at 
Willie.  He  was  floured  from  head  to  foot. 
Little  of  his  boyish  beauty  except  its  clear 
innocence  remained  to  him.  His  nose  was 
large  for  his  head,  and  on  his  head  the  au- 
burn curls  were  shorn  to  a  thin  crisping 
layer. 

His  young  sister  was  putting  supper  on 
the  table  in  the  dining-room,  his  brother  was 
fisting  with  another  boy  on  the  railroad,  and 


THE  FAIEFIELD  POET  165 

up  the  cow  lane  came  his  father  with  the  slow 
step  and  somewhat  of  the  ponderous  white 
presence  of  the  walking  statue  in  "  Don  Gio- 
vanni." But  closest  knit  of  all  this  family, 
mother  and  son  talked  together  in  silence, 
some  birds  in  the  mulberry-tree  over  their 
heads  making  the  only  calling  and  replying 
that  could  be  heard.  Before  Willie  reached 
her,  he  held  up  his  hands  and  signed  in  the 
deaf-mute  language :  — 

"The  preacher  has  come  back." 

Mrs.  Harbison  raised  her  hands  and 
darted  her  fingers  into  various  shapes,  saying 
thereby,  "  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  Willie  replied  as  swiftly  ;  "  I  only 
saw  his  coffin  in  the  wagon,  and  Nancy 
Ellen  sitting  beside  it.  She  had  to  bring 
him  the  whole  twenty  miles  from  where  he 
died,  in  a  wagon." 

"  Because  it  was  n't  on  a  railroad  ?  " 

Willie  nodded. 

His  mother  wove  on  :  "  Poor  Nancy  Ellen  ! 
Her  father  would  n't  let  her  have  the 


166  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

preacher  for  so  long,  and  turned  her  off 
when  she  did  marry  him.  Now  she's  a 
widow  in  her  honeymoon,  and  old  man  Mor- 
ton saying  he  told  her  a  preacher  as  old  as 
himself  was  n't  any  match  for  her.  Did  you 
see  her  father?  How  did  he  act  ?  " 

"  He  got  into  the  wagon  by  the  driver," 
said  Willie's  fingers. 

"  Well,  that  was  something  for  him." 
"  And  they  drove  to  his  place." 
"  I  suppose  he  11  let  her  come  back  and 
live  at  home  now." 

"  I  wish  you  had  seen  Nancy  Ellen." 
"  I  'm  going  to  see  her  after  the  milking 
is  done." 

"  Seen  her  by  the  preacher,"  insisted 
Willie's  passes.  "  She  looked  like  a  cap- 
tive coming  in  chains  to  Rome." 

"  Yes,  I  '11  be  bound  she  did.     Every  jolt 

of  that  twenty  miles  is  stamped  in  her  mind." 

"  I  wish,"  flashed  Willie,  "  I  knew  what 

the  preacher  sung  to  himself  all  along  the 

road." 


THE  FAIEFIELD  POET  167 

"  What  a  notion  !  You  11  have  to  fix  it 
up  in  poetry  now,  won't  you  ?  " 

Willie  shook  his  head  many  times  and 
reddened. 

"You  said  the  preacher  used  to  sing 
home  from  meeting  in  the  dark." 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  affirmed  Mrs.  Harbison. 
"  And  Nancy  Ellen  used  to  listen  for  him  to 
go  by  their  place." 

Their  talk  paused,  and  Willie  looked  up 
at  the  birds  in  the  mulberry.  Having  after- 
ward caught  his  mother's  eye,  he  wove  out 
slowly :  — 

"  When  in  the  tree  above  his  head 

The  sap  goes  tingling  through  the  bark, 
She  will  remember  it  was  dead, 
And  hear  him  singing  in  the  dark." 

"  Oh,  Willie,  is  that  the  first  verse  or  the 
last  ?  Have  you  written  it  down  ?  " 

Willie  smiled  shyly,  putting  his  head 
down  toward  one  shoulder,  without  making 
any  reply.  His  mother  urged,  with  eager 
fingers :  — 


168  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

"  Print  it  in  some  place  when  you  get 
it  done.  Nancy  Ellen  would  be  pleased." 

"  I  'm  not  an  obituary  poet,"  wove  Willie. 

"But  that's  so  good."  Mrs.  Harbison 
moved  her  lips,  repeating  it  to  herself. 
"  And  ain't  you  ever  going  to  publish  any- 
thing you  write  ?  I  've  heard  of  people  get- 
ting money  for  it." 

Willie  uttered  a  gentle  sneer.  He  laughed 
at  his  mother  in  a  way  that  always  made  her 
laugh  with  him. 

"  But  if  you  would  let  your  father  fix  up 
your  writings,"  she  continued,  repeating  an 
old  plea,  "  and  send  them  to  some  publish- 
ing house,  I  know  they  would  put  them  in  a 
book  for  you." 

The  gate,  weighted  by  a  stone,  slammed 
to  behind  his  father  coming  to  the  evening 
meal.  But  before  his  mother  rose,  Willie 
found  time  to  make  dance  before  her  eyes 
the  characters  indicating  this  promise  :  — 

"  Some  day  I  '11  get  on  my  bicycle  and 
ride  and  ride  until  I  come  to  a  publisher. 


THE  FAIRFIELD  POET  169 

If  you  miss  me,  you  '11  know  where  I  've 
gone.  You  can  just  say  to  yourself, '  He  's 
off  having  his  poems  published.'  Wait  till 
then,  mother ;  that  will  be  soon  enough." 

"  You  '11  never  do  it,"  said  his  mother, 
having  no  idea  how  near  the  time  was. 

She  gave  her  family  their  supper  and 
helped  to  milk  the  cows.  She  thought  of 
Willie's  stanza  when  the  milk  first  sang  in 
the  pail,  and  kept  repeating  it  until  the  ris- 
ing froth  drowned  all  sounds  of  the  lashing 
streams  quite  at  her  pail's  brim. 

When  the  house  was  tidy  and  full  of  twi- 
light stillness,  Mrs.  Harbison  put  on  a  clean 
apron  and  took  her  sunbonnet  to  make  her 
call  of  condolence.  It  was  likely  they  would 
want  watchers  at  Morton's,  and  she  was 
ready  to  do  anything.  She  had  helped  bear 
the  burden  of  life  and  death  so  long  in  Fair- 
field  that  illness,  a  new  baby,  or  the  mysteri- 
ous breathless  presence  in  any  house  was  a 
peremptory  invitation  to  her. 

The    boys     were    playing     hide-and-seek 


170  THE  FAIRFIELD  POET 

around  the  warehouse,  and  as  she  crossed  the 
open  lot  she  saw  the  usual  line  of  wise  men 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  platform  with  their 
legs  across  the  rail,  as  if  they  had  all  agreed 
to  make  an  offering  of  their  feet  to  the  Jug- 
gernaut of  the  next  passing  train. 

Willie  darted  like  a  bat  or  a  night  bird 
on  his  bicycle  far  up  and  far  down  the 
smooth  wagon  road.  Now  he  took  a  turn, 
and  came  spinning  among  the  boys,  scatter- 
ing them  before  him,  and  escaping  as  often 
as  they  chased  him.  In  one  of  these  ex- 
cursions he  crossed  his  mother's  way. 

The  last  red  streaks  and  high  sunset  lights 
were  not  gone  out  of  the  sky.  She  lifted  up 
her  hands  and  spelled,  "  Are  you  starting 
out  to  hunt  a  publisher  now? " 

And  Willie  laughed  and  nodded  and 
made  her  a  sign  of  good-by. 

The  pleasant  stillness  of  the  evening  fell 
around  her  like  a  blessing  as  she  went  on. 
Fireflies  were  filling  one  field,  as  if  a  confla- 
gration under  that  particular  ground  sent 


THE  FAIBFIELD  POET  171 

up  endless  streams  of  sparks.  She  smelled 
the  budding  elders,  and  was  reminded  of  tile- 
like  bits  in  her  past,  fitted  oddly  together. 

Morton  lived  but  a  few  steps  beyond  the 
village.  She  had  been  talking  a  mere  mo- 
ment with  Nancy  Ellen,  and  had  not  yet 
entered  the  room  where  the  preacher  lay 
when  another  neighbor  came  in  with  excite- 
ment, and  said  aloud,  over  the  whispered 
talk  of  the  mourning  house,  that  something 
was  wrong  down  at  the  station. 

"  That  express  has  run  into  something 
again,"  proclaimed  the  neighbor,  "  and  looks, 
by  the  way  folks  run,  as  if  it  was  n't  a  cow 
this  time.  Enough  cows  and  pigs  has  been 
killed  by  that  railroad/' 

"  I  have  n't  seen  the  express,"  said  Mrs. 
Harbison,  feeling  her  head  full  of  wheels. 
"  It  was  all  quiet  when  I  was  there  a  minute 
ago." 

"  The  express  has  stopped.  Good  reason ! 
There  's  something  on  the  track,  I  tell  ye," 
insisted  the  neighbor. 


172  THE  F AIRFIELD  POET 

Willie's  mother  was  sure  it  could  not  be 
Willie.  He  was  conscious  of  his  infirmity, 
and  so  cautious  that  she  had  long  ceased  to 
be  anxious  about  him.  He  knew  the  times 
of  all  the  trains  with  nice  exactness,  also. 
Yet  she  started  from  the  house  without 
speaking  another  word,  and  ran  until  she 
reached  the  crowd. 

The  engine  stood  hissing ;  it  confronted 
her  with  the  glare  of  its  eye,  a  horrid  and 
remorseless  fate,  ready  to  go  its  way  with 
bell  -  clanging  and  all  cheerful  noise,  no 
matter  who  had  been  ground  under  its 
wheels. 

The  conductor  was  just  stepping  on  board, 
for  time  and  orders  wait  for  nothing,  The 
engineer  had  already  climbed  back  to  his 
cab  ;  he  saw  a  running  woman  kneel  down 
on  the  platform  and  draw  the  boy  up  from 
the  boards  to  rest  in  her  arms.  Having 
seen  that  much,  the  engineer  turned  away 
his  head  and  wept  out  loud ;  and  the  train 
moved  on,  bearing  pale  faces  that  looked 


THE  FAIRFIELD  POET  173 

backward  as  long  as  they  could  discern  any- 
thing. 

Mrs.  Harbison  had  stumbled  over  Willie's 
bent  wheel  first.  When  she  found  him  in- 
deed laid  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  she  did 
not  believe  it.  He  was  not  mangled.  His 
bones  were  sound  —  she  felt  them  with  a 
fiercely  quick  hand.  There  was  no  mark 
about  him  excepting  a  dirty-looking  spot  on 
one  temple. 

"  Willie,"  she  cried,  shaking  him. 
"Willie!  Willie!" 

"  We  '11  have  to  carry  him  home,"  said 
her  husband  at  her  side,  his  voice  sounding 
far  off  as  if  it  came  strained  through  some 
dense  medium. 

She  looked  up,  and  could  not  understand 
it. 

"  He 's  knocked  senseless,"  she  claimed. 
"  Why  doesn't  somebody  bring  water?  " 

"  He  never  knowed  what  hurt  him,"  cau- 
tiously said  one  villager  to  another.  "  The 
train  was  goin'  so  fast,  and  he  come  up  from 


174  THE  F AIRFIELD  POET 

among  the  houses  onto  it  so  fast,  that  it  was 
done  in  a  flash." 

"  And  I  don't  never  want  to  see  no  better 
boy  than  Willie  Harbison  was,"  responded 
the  other. 

But  only  his  mother — when  she  had  him 
at  home  lying  in  that  pomp  of  death  with 
which  we  all  shall  impress  beholders  —  could 
have  pronounced  the  true  oration  over  him. 
Through  her  dumb  tragedy  she  wanted  to 
make  deaf-mute  signs  to  some  intelligence 
that  here  lay  one  of  Nature's  poets,  with  a 
gift  virgin  and  untarnished. 

He  had  never  hunted  a  public.  His  pub- 
lic was  the  woods  and  sky,  and  his  critic 
one  fond  woman.  Not  a  line  of  unsatisfied 
ambition  marked  his  placid  face.  He  had 
lived  an  humble,  happy  life,  and  sung  for  the 
sake  of  expression,  not  for  the  sake  of  praise. 
He  had,  after  all,  only  gone  to  find  the  best 
publisher,  and  his  mother  could  always  hear 
him  "  singing  in  the  dark." 


TT^EGORE 
A  PASTORAL  IN  THREE  PARTS 

TIME,  1883 


PART  I 
HE   THREATENS    TO    ARRIVE 

"  We  will  not  endeavor  to  modify  the  motions  of  the 
elements,  or  fix  the  destiny  of  kingdoms.  It  is  our  busi- 
ness to  consider  what  beings  like  us  may  perform  :  each 
laboring  for  his  own  happiness  by  promoting  within  his 
circle,  however  narrow,  the  happiness  of  others."  — 
Easselas. 

"  COME  into  the  painting-room,"  said 
Julian,  "  and  let 's  talk  it  over." 

"  How  excited  you  are !  "  I  said. 

"Well,  after  balancing  one  way  and 
another  for  years,  my  mind's  made  up. 
We  're  going." 

"To  Europe?" 


176  T'FEEGORE 

"  Yes,  to  Europe." 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  prospect,"  I  said. 
And  then  leaning  against  his  elbow  I  heaved 
a  great  sigh. 

"  It  must  be  a  beautiful  prospect  if  you 
groan  like  that  over  it." 

"  The  groan 's  because  I  can't  go." 

Julian  sat  down  and  took  me  indulgently 
on  his  knee.  Some  women  in  marriage 
have  their  pride  gratified  by  a  good  match, 
by  all  the  pomps  of  life,  or  by  unlimited 
allowances  of  spending  money.  But  my 
portion  is  to  be  loved  and  cherished  and 
fondled  like  an  infant.  I  like  it  very  much. 
Some  part  of  me  lingers  in  eternal  baby- 
hood. In  the  glass  I  frequently  see  a  ju- 
venile face  with  dimples  around  the  mouth, 
that  disowns  its  thirty  years. 

"  You  think,"  said  Julian,  after  kissing 
me  in  a  way  which  would  scandalize  some 
of  the  girls  who  made  the  best  matches, 
"  that  we  can't  raise  the  money." 

Such  a  thought  would  have  been  justified 


T'FERGORE  177 

by  the  fact  that  we  seldom  could  raise  the 
money. 

"  But  we  can.  And  what 's  the  use  of 
waiting  around  till  we  are  old  ?  I  'm  in 
my  thirties.  And  if  I  ever  do  anything 
now's  the  time  to  do  it.  A  man  can't 
make  a  success  of  painting  here  in  the 
west." 

I  looked  all  around  Julian's  studio.  He 
had  done  many  portraits,  and  hated  them. 
They  made  our  living.  But  he  believed  he 
was  wasting  time. 

I  always  loved  to  be  in  the  studio,  and 
sometimes  sat  there  a  whole  afternoon,  with 
bits  of  sewing,  behind  a  screen.  A  great 
many  people  took  the  elevator  to  explore 
Julian's  work  place.  He  had  reputation  in 
his  native  city.  And  when  they  stumbled 
around  the  screen  on  me,  they  might  have 
taken  me  for  a  model.  But  most  of  the 
explorers  were  country  people,  piloted  by 
their  town  friends  to  see  the  sights.  I  only 
looked  odd  to  them.  I  know  I  looked  odd, 


178  T'FERGORE 

because  Julian  had  me  dress  in  loose  gowns 
and  broad  hats.  Cheese  cloth  is  only  four 
cents  a  yard  and  very  wide,  and  with  bor- 
ders of  velvet  or  lace  it  made  sumptuous 
cool  toilets.  I  was  slim;  and  a  dull  blue 
gown,  belted  just  under  my  arms  and  puffed 
at  the  shoulders,  with  an  aureole  of  dull 
blue  hat  over  it,  made  me  look  nice  in 
Julian's  eyes  or  I  never  should  have  had 
the  courage  to  face  the  street.  When  a 
person  is  slim  and  lithe,  however,  her  daring 
clothes  have  not  the  aggressive  grossness  of 
a  fat  woman's  daring  clothes. 

Looking  around  the  painting-room,  I  could 
not  think  Julian  a  failure.  He  had  made 
it  so  pretty  with  tiles  and  pottery  and  drap- 
ing stuff,  and  flowers  painted  in  dull  red 
or  bronze  vases,  or  in  masses  wasting  their 
petals,  and  landscapes,  some  blurred  so  you 
had  to  squint  your  eyes  to  get  the  outlines. 
Looking  at  himself  I  always  considered  him 
a  great  success.  His  mouth  and  chin  were 
so  refined.  He  was  muscular  and  alert  in 


T'FERGOEE  179 

his  carriage  for  a  man  of  his  profession,  and 
his  ideas  were  far  grander  than  mine. 

"  So  I  'm  going  to  sell  the  little  farm," 
said  Julian. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  that 's  all  the  pro- 
perty we  've  got." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  perfectly 
willing.  What  does  it  amount  to,  anyhow  ? 
Fifteen  acres  and  a  scrubby  house  and 
barn." 

"  What  wiU  old  Lena  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  '11'  continue  her  gardening.  I  've 
had  an  offer  of  two  thousand  dollars  for  it. 
One  thousand  down,  five  hundred  in  one 
year,  and  the  balance  in  eighteen  months. 
We  can  live  a  long  time  abroad  on  that. 
And  I  shall  get  hold  of  something  then. 
We  11  never  come  back  here." 

I  did  not  mind  that  at  all.  The  prospect 
was  dazzling.  But  I  saw  I  should  have  to 
tell  him  at  once. 

"  You  did  n't  know  your  poor  painter 
would  take  you  to  Europe,  did  you?  Think 


180  T'FEEGORE 

of  Kome,  think  of  Paris,  think  of  being 
domesticated  in  some  ancient  German  city 
while  I  paint !  " 

"  Oh,  I  think  of  it,  Julian ;  but  could  you 
go  without  me  ?  " 

"  Could  I  go  without  you?  "  said  Julian, 
setting  me  off  on  the  tip  of  his  knees.  "  Did 
I  ever  go  to  any  place  without  you  ?  Did  n't 
I  manage  that  jaunt  up  to  Canada  with  you  ? 
Did  I  scour  out  to  Colorado  and  leave  you 
at  home  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  go  without 
you?" 

«  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Then  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  certainly  don't  know,"  said  Julian 
severely,  "  if  you  think  I  would  go  off  to 
Europe  for  even  a  limited  time,  to  say  no- 
thing of  an  indefinite  time,  without  you. 
Why,  you  great  baby,  you  'd  cry  your  eyes 
out !  And  if  you  got  sick  who  would  do  you 
up  in  packs  and  give  you  your  medicine? 
You  can't  get  along  away  from  me." 


T'FEEGORE  181 

"  I  know  it,  Julian." 

"  And  where  would  you  stay !  "  con- 
tinued Julian  with  increasing  indignation. 
"  You  would  n't  want  to  keep  up  a  house, 
and  you  would  n't  want  to  board.  And 
what  business  would  you  have  over  here  by 
yourself,  anyhow !  You  provoke  me  !  " 

"  I  believe  I  'm  going  to  cry,"  I  said. 

"  I  should  think  you  would,  for  proposing 
such  a  thing.  But  don't  do  it." 

"  I  am  going  to  cry,"  I  affirmed,  and  put 
my  hands  up  to  my  face,  while  I  quivered 
all  over.  These  mute  fits  of  sobbing,  relics 

of  my  babyhood  which  I  try  so  hard  to  out- 

• 

grow,  seize  me  unreasonably.  They  take 
away  every  scrap  of  dignity.  I  never  could 
get  the  best  end  of  a  quarrel  on  account  of 
this  weakness ;  for  who  could  sweep  out  of 
a  room  with  a  stinging  retort,  when  at  the 
door  she  was  sure  to  break  down,  lay  her 
cheek  against  the  frame,  and  sob  until  every 
fibre  in  her  seemed  melting! 

The  only  good  effect  of  my  crying,  besides 


182  T'FEEGOEE 

the  delicious  languor  it  left  over  me,  was 
that  it  melted  Julian  also.  I  have  known 
it  to  be  a  very  convenient  solvent  when  he 
hardened  himself  into  a  male  tyrant.  His 
face  was  sure  to  relax  and  his  motherly 
arms  to  gather  me  in.  Some  men  will  run 
from  tears,  and  very  disagreeable  men  they 
are.  Julian  seems  to  like  the  soaking.  It 
is  tribute  to  him  as  a  man,  and  certifies 
to  his  grip  on  my  individuality.  He  is  con- 
vinced I  am  very  fond  of  him,  and  depend- 
ent on  his  gracious  favor,  when  I  creep  to 
his  knees  to  cry. 

Julian  wiped  my  tears  and  comforted  me 
upon  his  shoulder,  his  face  assuming  its 
usual  superior  expression. 

When  I  got  my  breath  and  knew  that  I 
could  talk  becomingly  between  little  hic- 
coughs, I  told  him  the  message  I  had  from 
T'fergore,  and  he  saw  at  once  how  it  would 
prevent  the  European  trip. 

He  whistled  a  minute,  and  we  studied 
each  other's  eyes. 


T'FERGOEE  183 

"  Well,"  said  Julian,  "  I  suppose  we  owe 
everything  to  the  old  fellow,  and  if  he  is 
really  coming  we  '11  have  to  prepare  for 
him." 

"  Perhaps  we  better  go  out  to  the  little 
farm,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  better.  We  '11  have 
to  economize,  to  gratify  all  his  fastidious 
tastes." 

"  I  wish  he  'd  sent  word  to  you,  instead 
of  to  me,"  I  burst  out.  " It's  your  relation 
this  time." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  he  had,"  said  Julian,  smil- 
ing. 

"  Are  you  glad  or  sorry,  Julian  ?  " 

"  Glad,  of  course.  But  why  did  n't  you 
tell  me  before  ?  " 

"How  could  I  tell  you  what  I  didn't 
know  myself?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  his  fault,  evidently,"  said  Julian. 

I  began  to  wonder  if  Julian  would  not  be 
a  little  jealous  of  T'fergore.  As  I  had  never 
seen  T'fergore  myself,  I  did  not  know  what 


184  T'FEEGOEE 

his  aptitude  might  be  at  putting  himself 
forward  and  eclipsing  the  master  of  the 
house.  But  I  was  glad  it  was  Julian's  re- 
lation this  time. 

We  had  had  several  of  my  kin  living 
upon  our  hearthstone  at  various  times,  and 
though  Julian  was  always  kind,  I  think  he 
undervalued  the  stock  from  which  I  sprung. 
He  said  I  must  have  been  changed  in  the 
cradle,  for  refinement  was  my  natural  atmos- 
phere. I  did  myself  feel  a  creeping  of  the 
flesh  at  brother  Jack's  ways ;  but  the  dear 
boy  had  been  brought  up  away  from  me,  and 
his  manners  were  not  his  fault.  He  had  an 
affectionate  and  honorable  nature,  and  soon 
quit  spitting  upon  our  Brussels  rugs  and 
hard  finished  floors ;  his  English,  however, 
was  beyond  all  help.  I  loved  Jack  so  dearly 
that  it  was  a  grief  to  me  to  see  him  falling 
to  pieces  in  his  clothes,  and  slipping  up  and 
down  in  shoes  that  were  never  buttoned. 
He  frequently  put  his  trousers  on  wrong 
side  foremost,  and  came  to  me  to  help  him 


TFEEGORE  185 

hunt  the  pockets.  With  my  own  pin-money 
I  bought  him  hats  that  must  adorn  his  rosy 
face,  but  after  he  slouched  out  in  them  once 
they  looked  disreputable.  His  coat-sleeves 
hung  over  his  dirty  fists  like  a  hackman's. 
Whenever  he  passed  through  his  room  he 
left  it  as  if  it  had  been  struck  by  a  tornado. 
The  earth  adhered  to  Jack.  Stray  burrs 
and  dumpings  of  gravel  appeared  by  the 
chair  where  he  sat  to  put  on  his  slippers. 
He  had  no  cattish  horror  of  mud,  and  left 
the  print  of  his  foot  on  his  napkin  under 
the  table.  When  Jack  was  partially  dressed, 
he  shouted  for  me,  to  the  remotest  corners,  to 
come  and  button  his  sleeves  and  hand  him 
his  tie. 

The  more  fastidious  our  company,  the 
louder  would  Jack  bite  his  nails,  while  he 
sprawled  like  a  spread  eagle  on  the  sofa, 
until  every  pause  in  conversation  became 
vocal  with  that  horrible  cracking.  He  lost 
everything  portable  which  was  not  tied  or 
buttoned  about  his  person,  but  he  was 


186  TFEEGOEE 

always  so  good-natured  about  the  losses  it 
seemed  stingy  to  regret  the  money  it  cost  to 
replace  things. 

As  he  had  no  inclination  toward  Art,  and 
walked  flat-footed  over  canvases  whenever 
he  came  into  the  studio,  Julian  got  him 
employment.  Jack's  apprenticeship  to  buy- 
ing and  selling  was  to  me  a  long  period  of 
alternate  hopes  and  despairs.  He  would 
begin  well,  and  in  fancy  I  saw  him  a  mer- 
chant prince ;  but  eventually  he  fell  out 
with  everybody  and  thought  himself  abused 
when  his  employer  objected  to  his  dribbling 
small  change  along  the  streets,  and  losing 
keys.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  for  Jack 
when  the  despair  seasons  came  upon  me. 
But  in  the  end  he  did  very  well  for  himself. 
He  got  tired  of  the  city,  and  no  cajoling  of 
mine  could  keep  him  from  thrusting  some 
shirts  into  a  valise,  grasping  a  pair  of  heavy 
boots  in  his  hand,  and  starting  for  the 
country,  sowing  handkerchiefs  and  unmated 
socks  in  his  wake.  He  went  to  work  for  a 


T'FERGOKE  187 

middle-aged  widow  with  considerable  pro- 
perty, and  she  got  the  dear  boy's  consent  to 
marry  him :  so  there  he  is,  a  landed  pro- 
prietor, with  a  thrifty  wife  to  button  his 
sleeves  and  join  knives  with  him  in  the  but- 
ter. Our  bric-a-brac  ways  trouble  him  no 
more,  and  what  he  loses  in  the  furrow  at 
planting  time  he  may  find  again  during  har- 
vest. And  when  he  comes  to  see  us,  his 
loving  heart  is  as  mellow  as  the  apples  he 
brings. 

Then  there  was  Aunt  Lizy.  I  suppose 
she  was  christened  Eliza,  but  her  name  was 
always  pronounced  Lizy  with  a  plaintive 
lingering  on  the  i.  We  had  her  with  us 
two  years.  She  was  a  stepsister  of  my  step- 
mother's. She  looked  like  an  Indian,  and 
had  seen  more  trouble  than  any  other  wo- 
man with  whom  she  ever  measured  experi- 
ences. Her  breathing  was  all  done  in  sighs, 
and  she  tweaked  her  nose  so  much  it  was 
twisted  at  the  end,  and  all  of  a  dark  red 
color.  She  and  I  never  could  understand 


188  T'FERGORE 

why  fortune  hit  her  so  hard,  and  we  talked 
about  it  so  much  that  I  was  kept  quite 
bilious. 

Aunt  Lizy  felt  too  low  to  sit  in  the  parlor 
unless  dragged  there  by  entreaties,  and  spent 
a  great  deal  of  her  time  on  the  back  stairs 
with  a  sunbonnet  drawn  over  her  eyes. 
She  did  not  want  to  go  anywhere,  and  the 
sound  of  the  door-bell  exorcised  her  as  if 
she  were  a  ghost.  She  compared  her  lot  to 
mine  until  I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  wonder- 
ing if  I  had  not  stood  in  her  sun. 

I  think  Julian  secretly  regarded  her  as  a 
trying  disease  that  we  had  in  the  house,  and 
that  must  be  doctored  and  endured.  She 
was  so  much  in  awe  of  him  that  I  suffered 
anguish  with  her  whenever  he  tried  to  show 
a  man's  bluff  kindness  to  her. 

Aunt  Lizy  finally  died,  and  her  face 
looked  young  and  cheerful  in  the  coffin.  We 
scraped  some  money  together  and  bought  a 
lot  in  the  cemetery,  and  her  misused  body 
rests  there  under  roses,  myrtle,  and  verbenas. 


T'FERGORE  189 

I  take  pains  to  keep  her  shade  pleasant  and 
her  sod  well  trimmed ;  and  when  the  flowers 
look  particularly  thrifty,  I  feel  as  if  Aunt 
Lizy  were  learning  how  to  laugh,  at  last. 

Her  daughter,  who  had  been  deserted  by 
a  husband  as  soon  as  she  gave  him  a  child  to 
support,  came  to  the  funeral,  and  remained 
to  make  an  unlimited  visit  and  pick  up  such 
wearing  apparel  and  other  comforts  as  we 
had  given  Aunt  Lizy. 

She  took  entire  possession  of  the  house, 
being  as  loud-voiced  and  self-assertive  as 
her  mother  was  crushed  and  sensitive.  But 
she  owned  me  before  everybody  as  her 
cousin,  and  took  notice  of  Julian,  though 
she  preferred  Irish  society  in  the  kitchen, 
and  installed  me  as  her  nurse,  while  she  en- 
joyed it.  The  baby's  usual  expression  was 
that  of  a  young  bird  when  it  hears  the 
parent  return  to  the  nest  with  a  full  beak. 
I  used  to  sit  studying  the  interior  of  the 
poor  child's  throat,  while  its  voice  pierced 
my  marrow.  Julian  made  a  sketch  of  the 


190  T'FERGORE 

pimply  little  face,  but  finished  it  up  with  a 
black  cat's  body  and  a  high  fence.  It  cried 
steadily  during  its  stay,  and  had  the  croup 
and  the  doctor  and  our  sleep,  until  Julian 
said  he  must  follow  the  excusable  example 
of  its  father  and  abandon  it.  He  paid  the 
fare  of  Aunt  Lizy's  daughter  to  relations  in 
the  far  west,  and  loaded  her  with  whatever 
she  fancied  her  mother's.  Yet  she  probably 
thought  we  shirked  kinsmen's  duty  toward 
her,  for  we  have  since  heard  the  whisper 
that  we  got  all  that  Aunt  Lizy  ought  to 
have  left  her. 

So  I  was  glad  that  T'fergore  and  not  one 
of  my  own  stock  now  dictated  a  postpone- 
ment of  the  foreign  trip. 

Next  day  we  drove  out  to  the  little  farm 
and  saw  old  Lena.  Julian  declared  she  was 
worth  driving  the  five  miles  to  see,  if  it  was 
only  to  say  "  Good-day,  Lena,"  and  watch 
her  shriveled  smiles.  She  always  wore  a 
blue  calico  or  blue  woolen  dress,  low  shoes, 
and  scarlet  stockings.  Her  gait  was  a  cheer- 


T'FEKGORE  191 

ful  trot,  but  her  tongue  was  lamest  at  the 
English  language  of  any  tongue  I  have  ever 
heard.  She  had  a  grandson  named  Fritz, 
tallow-colored  and  blue-eyed,  and  covered 
with  contagious  smiles.  He  never  had  for- 
gotten the  feeling  of  wooden  shoes  on  his 
feet,  and  clumped  conscientiously  in  leather. 
Lena  and  Fritz  rented  the  little  farm,  and 
Fritz  pushed  the  vegetables,  fruit,  and  but- 
ter to  market  in  a  hand-cart.  Summer  or 
winter,  the  road,  a  turnpike,  was  as  smooth 
and  hard  as  a  floor.  Every  inch  of  the 
fifteen  acres  was  under  cultivation  Such 
weeds  as  were  allowed  to  grow  had  some 
medicinal  property,  or  were  good  for  feed- 
ing Lena's  birds.  She  had  her  cages  hung 
along  the  porch,  the  two  canaries,  the  red- 
bird,  and  the  mockingbird  trying  to  out-sing 
and  out-chatter  the  wild  things  in  the  cherry- 
trees. 

It  was  the  last  of  May,  and  I  snuffed 
delightful  odors  from  the  little  farm.  Nas- 
turtium vines  were  already  running  up 


192  T'FERGOEE 

strings  at  the  window.  They  produced  little 
pods  of  which  Lena  made  my  favorite 
pickles.  She  had  one  blazing  bed  of  tulips 
in  the  garden,  and  her  early  vegetables  were 
showing  green.  Everything  Lena  tended 
grew  like  magic.  Fritz  had  raked  every 
stick  and  bit  of  trash  into  the  meadow,  and 
the  heap  was  burning  with  a  pale  flicker  in 
the  sunlight,  and  raising  smoke  like  incense 
from  the  sod.  Whenever  I  smell  that  smoke 
I  think  I  must  tell  my  sensations  to  some- 
body who  can  put  them  in  a  poem :  a 
homely  poem  about  last  year's  pea-vines  and 
strawberry  and  currant  leaves,  exhaling  the 
dew  as  they  turned  into  blue  vapor,  and 
suggesting,  though  I  cannot  tell  why,  the 
old  home  garden  life  when  Adam  and  Eve 
were  content  to  lean  down  to  the  sweet 
ground  and  feel  the  loam  with  their  fingers, 
or  take  delight  in  the  breath  of  fresh-cut 
grass. 

The  walk  up  to  the  porch  was  of  uneven 
stones,  each  outlined  by  moss.     Lena  arose 


T'FERGOEE  193 

between  two  gaping  cellar  doors  at  the  side 
of  the  house,  and  ambled  down  the  walk  to 
meet  us. 

"Wie  befinden,  Lena?"  said  Julian. 
"  Suppose  we  put  off  that  sale  and  you  take 
us  to  live  on  your  prospective  estate  ?  " 

"Was  Lena  going  to  buy  it?"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Of  course.  She  's  grown  so  wealthy  off 
my  land  that  she  was  going  to  turn  me  away 
entirely." 

Lena  laughed  and  shook  her  head  and 
made  gestures  of  good-will. 

We  went  into  the  house,  and  Julian 
bargained  with  Lena  to  take  us  home  unto 
our  estate.  There  was  plenty  of  room  for 
our  furniture.  Lena  had  nothing  but  a 
spinning-wheel  in  one  long  slant-sided  room 
over  the  wing.  Julian  said  he  should  leave 
the  spinning-wheel  alone,  hang  his  draperies 
and  pictures  there,  set  up  his  easels,  and 
make  it  a  painting-room.  The  house  had 
all  sorts  of  tags  and  after-thoughts  built  to 


194  T'FERGORE 

the  main  part.  Some  boards  in  the  floors 
arched  downwards  like  inverted  rainbows. 
You  mounted  two  steps  to  one  room  and 
descended  three  to  another.  There  were 
tall  mantles  and  unexpected  closets.  The 
staircase  twisted  in  a  way  I  fancied  T'fer- 
gore  would  not  like.  I  sat  down  on  the 
porch  bench  while  Julian  was  giving  Lena 
directions,  and  tried  to  picture  T'fergore 
coming  up  the  walk  toward  the  house.  Was 
he  white  or  brown  ?  Would  he  be  churlish 
or  full  of  the  spirit  of  laughter  ?  Was  he 
bringing  trouble  or  gladness  to  Julian  and 
me? 

PART  II 

WE   PREPARE   FOR   HIM 

"  So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself." 

"  Ah,  what  a  life  were  this !   how  sweet  —  how  lovely  ! 
Gives  not  the  hawthorn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds  looking  on  their  silly  sheep 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroidered  canopy 
To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ?  " 


T'FERGOEE  195 

"  For  trust  not  him  that  once  hath  broken  faith." 

King  Henry  VI. 

"  Against  ill  chances  men  are  ever  merry ; 
But  heaviness  foreruns  the  good  event. " 

King  Henry  VI. 

It  took  several  weeks  for  us  to  get  quite 
comfortably  settled  at  the  little  farm.  We 
lazily  decorated  our  residence,  or  suspended 
labor  upon  it,  just  as  we  pleased.  Then  the 
delicious  June  days  trod  upon  each  other's 
heels.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  scarcely  risen 
and  found  the  breakfast  Lena  always  kept 
for  me  —  of  toast  and  jelly  and  chocolate  — 
before  the  evening  star  trembled  in  the  west, 
and  I  was  following  her  and  Fritz  to  the 
barnyard  to  take  my  cup  of  new  milk  with 
the  foam  on.  Even  Midsummer  Day,  the 
longest  and  loveliest  day  in  the  year,  was 
gone  while  we  talked  about  it. 

At  first  our  friends  came  down  from  the 
city,  but  as  the  heat  increased  they  took 
longer  journeys.  Julian  painted  zealously. 
He  said  after  T'fergore  came  he  would  be 
hindered  a  great  deal.  I  lay  in  a  hammock 


196  T'FERGORE 

and  watched  him,  sometimes  wondering  at 
my  new  languor.  I  thought  a  great  deal 
about  T'fergore,  without  talking  of  him  to 
Julian.  Julian  licensed  me  to  be  silly  to  a 
certain  extent :  beyond  that  limit  I  kept  my 
silliness  to  myself.  It  was  nothing  for  me 
to  twist  Mr.  Fergus  Dering's  name  into 
T'fergore,  because  I  had  a  talent  for  re- 
christening  people  and  objects.  But  how 
impatient  Julian  would  have  been  with  all 
my  speculations  about  T'fergore !  I  could 
not  make  an  image  of  him  in  my  mind,  yet 
he  was  always  haunting  me.  I  wondered  if 
he  would  stay  with  us  always ;  sometimes 
his  ideal  head,  with  impalpable  garments 
below  it,  changing  from  expression  to  ex- 
pression, laughed  at  me  from  the  clouds. 
What  an  individuality  he  must  have  to  seize 
upon  me  so  before  his  coming !  He  was  a 
gifted  creature,  according  to  Julian  ;  and  his 
silent  approach  was  weaving  me  in  a  net- 
work of  fascination  that  I  never  thought  at 
first  of  resisting. 


T'FERGORE  197 

When  I  was  roused  to  activity,  we  made 
haste  to  finish  our  arrangements  about  the 
house  and  get  T'f  ergore's  room  ready.  Julian 
himself  hung  some  draping  stuff  from  the 
studio  there.  We  spent  money  on  a  bath, 
and  a  curious  water  jug  and  basin,  and  I 
could  not  feel  contented  without  giving  the 
chamber  a  more  delicate  look  with  muslin 
and  blue  silesia.  We  used  to  stand  look- 
ing around  this  apartment  with  admiration. 
Julian  hung  one  of  his  flower  pictures  there, 
though  he  said  T'fergore  would  probably  do 
nothing  but  make  a  face  at  it.  And  I  never 
went  into  the  woods  for  a  handful  of  wild 
flowers,  without  filling  T'f  ergore's  vase  of 
Dresden  china,  when  I  got  back. 

Then  Julian  said  we  must  have  a  horse 
and  vehicle,  for  if  he  knew  anything  about 
T'fergore  that  young  gentleman  would  want 
to  take  the  air  on  wheels.  We  had,  how- 
ever, very  little  cash  to  spend  on  such  a 
turnout. 

"  We  can  dispense  with  style,"  said  Julian, 


198  T'FERGORE 

"  if  a  kind,  serviceable  rig  is  to  be  bought 
cheap." 

So  he  kept  a  liveryman  in  town  on  the 
lookout  for  him,  and  one  afternoon  he  re- 
ceived a  message  and  went  to  drive  home 
our  bargain. 

Lena  followed  me  to  the  gate  to  see  the 
flourish  Julian  described  there  before  alight- 
ing. 

"  What  made  you  get  a  cart  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  This,"  said  Julian,  "  is  a  sort  of  a  dog- 
cart. The  rage  is  all  for  dog-carts  just  now, 
and  we  could  n't  have  a  phaeton,  you  know." 

"  But  they  are  n't  painted  red." 

"  This  one  is,"  said  Julian. 

"  And  there  is  no  place  behind  for  the 
dogs,"  I  further  objected. 

"  Oh,  well,  T'f  ergore  won't  want  to  carry  a 
dog,"  said  Julian.  "  It 's  a  bargain  on  two 
wheels ! " 

Whatever  is  mine  acquires  peculiar  merits 
in  my  eyes.  A  halo  of  possession  arches  it, 
making  it  a  little  better  than  the  same  thing 


T'FERGORE  199 

owned  by  anybody  else.  I  accepted  the  red 
cart  and  followed  Julian  into  the  stable-yard, 
where,  after  Fritz  helped  him  unhitch,  he 
showed  me  the  points  of  the  horse. 

"  Women  always  notice  the  ornamental 
part  of  a  turnout  first,"  said  Julian.     "  Be- 
fore you  looked  at  the  cart  you  ought  to  . 
have  taken  in  Leander." 

"  Is  his  name  Leander  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  So  I  have  been  informed,"  replied 
Julian. 

"  What  makes  him  look  as  if  he  were 
crying  ?  " 

"  His  eyes  need  sponging,"  said  Julian. 
"  This  warm  weather  is  severe  on  a  horse's 
eyes." 

"  I  hope  he  has  not  parted  with  any  near 
and  dear  friend."  "  He  looks  as  if  he  could 
hardly  stand  up  under  some  affliction." 

"  Horses  are  dear  now,"  observed  Julian 
with  severity,  "  and  you  can't  expect  to  get 
a  thoroughbred  for  forty  dollars.  The  livery- 
man said  he  shipped  a  car-load  to  Louisville 


200  T'FERGOEE 

last  week,  some  of  them  so  weak  they  had  to 
lean  against  the  sides  of  the  car.  This  one 
is  sound,  and  only  needs  a  little  good  care  to 
bring  him  out." 

"  Yes,  his  bones  all  look  nice,"  I  assented. 
My  heart  began  to  warm  toward  Leander. 

"It  's  a  fine  thing  to  own  a  noble  animal 
like  a  horse,  is  n't  it,  Julian  ?  —  and  to  see 
him  grazing  around  one's  homestead." 

Julian  said  he  believed  he  would  take 
Leander  into  the  yard  and  let  him  clip  off 
some  of  the  grass,  before  stabling  him. 

Fritz  put  the  red  cart  under  a  shed,  and 
helped  Lena  milk,  while  we  walked  enam- 
ored after  our  purchase  from  one  part  of 
the  lawn  to  another. 

"What  makes  his  hams  look  so  sad, 
Julian  ?  "  I  inquired  with  concern. 

"  Flanks,  you  mean,"  said  Julian. 

"  Yes.  But  are  n't  horses  usually  cush- 
iony there  ?  " 

"  Pigs  and  prize  cattle  are,"  said  Julian 
contemptuously. 


T'FERGOEE  201 

"  But  his  hind  legs  run  up  so  tall  that 
when  he  lifts  one  he  seems  to  be  coming  in 
two,  like  Baron  Munchausen's  horse  when  it 
got  caught  in  the  city  gates." 

"  Sorry  you  don't  like  him,"  observed 
Julian,  scratching  a  match  on  his  heel  and 
lighting  a  cigar. 

"  I  do  like  him,  Julian.  It  would  be 
strange  if  I  did  n't  like  our  own  horse  !  The 
way  he  is  standing  now  does  n't  show  his 
ribs  so.  Could  n't  we  induce  him  to  keep 
that  position  generally  ?  " 

But  Leander  now  drew  all  his  feet  nearer 
to  a  focus,  and  frightened  me  by  a  convul- 
sion. 

"  He  's  just  going  to  lie  down,"  explained 
Julian.  "  He  wants  to  roll  in  the  grass. 
They  say  a  horse  that  rolls  clear  over  is 
worth  fifty  dollars,  anyhow.  Watch  him, 
now." 

We  watched  him  in  breathless  suspense, 
Julian  holding  the  lighted  cigar  away  from 
his  lips.  Leander,  after  several  half  revo- 


202  T'FERGORE 

lutions,  brandished  his  heels  triumphantly  in 
the  air  and  rolled  clear  over. 

Julian  and  I  shook  hands. 

"  Gained  ten  dollars  in  value  since  I 
brought  him  home,"  said  Julian. 

Whatever  doubts  I  had  harbored  about 
an  artist's  knowledge  of  horses  certainly 
vanished.  And  Leander,  after  standing  up 
to  shake  himself,  lay  down  to  try  it  again. 
But  this  time  he  brandished  ineffectual  heels 
and  contented  himself  with  only  a  half  turn. 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  has  gone  off  any  in 
his  value,  Julian  ?  "  I  inquired  anxiously. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Julian,  throwing  out 
clouds  of  smoke.  "  You  must  n't  expect  too 
much  of  a  horse  on  a  couple  of  mouthfuls  of 


We  drove  Leander  a  great  deal  during 
the  July  weather.  The  cart  had  very  easy 
springs,  and  I  liked  billowing  along  on  them, 
though  the  motion  was  a  little  jerky.  Lean- 
der was  a  kind  creature.  He  never  kicked, 
though  he  sometimes  got  his  legs  tangled  in 


T'FERGOEE  203 

his  tackling,  fighting  flies ;  and  notwithstand- 
ing his  countenance  continued  watery,  he 
took  a  widow-like  interest  in  us.  I  fed  him 
lumps  of  sugar  and  bunches  of  very  sweet 
grass,  which  he  swallowed  in  a  resigned  way. 
Julian,  with  sleeves  rolled  up,  zealously 
mixed  chopped  feed  for  him,  and  Leander 
smeared  this  from  sunken  temple  to  sunken 
jaw,  so  that  often  when  I  entered  the  stable 
I  thought  he  was  undergoing  a  poulticing. 

Leander  objected  to  railway  trains,  so  we 
knew  he  had  spirit. 

"  There 's  considerable  go  in  him,"  said 
Julian  as  we  trotted  between  fence -rows 
where  elderberries  were  spreading  and  rip- 
ening. "  Wait  till  I  get  him  fat  once ! 
You  '11  be  astonished  to  see  how  he  comes 
out." 

"  Do  you  think  his  eyes  will  quit  weeping 
as  his  condition  improves,  Julian  ?  "  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Naturally.  We  can  get  him  glasses  if 
they  don't,"  said  Julian.  "  What  an  absurd 


204  T'FEEGORE 

baby  you  are  in  your  demands!  Beauty 
and  muscle  never  go  together  in  a  horse. 
Some  of  the  best  goers  on  the  turf  are  a 
mere  mass  of  wires  when  you  look  at  them 
from  an  aesthetic  standpoint." 

It  was  really  enough  to  have  any  kind  of 
power,  except  our  own,  trundling  us  along 
the  pleasant  roads.  I  grew  to  feel  no  solici- 
tude whatever  about  Leander's  ribs  while  he 
stood  cooling  them  in  the  creek,  and  Julian 
and  I  in  the  high  cart  watched  the  sunlight 
come  down  the  woods'  aisles,  and  long  fes- 
toons of  grapevine  dipping  and  reflecting 
their  leaves  in  water.  When  we  met  any- 
body I  tried  complacently  to  imagine  we 
were  an  English  farm-couple  very  well  to  do 
and  what  they  call  smart  in  our  turnout; 
or  that  we  were  Italian  peasants,  basking  in 
the  sun  as  we  jogged  royally  to  some  festa. 
But  Julian  became  very  critical  on  the  pro- 
portions of  horses  and  vehicles  to  each  other. 
He  ridiculed  a  combination  of  tall  horse  and 
low  phaeton,  the  top  of  which  barely  reached 


T'FEEGORE  205 

up  to  the  horse's  back;  or  of  pony  and 
double-seated  carriage,  looking  like  a  tug 
drawing  a  steamer.  In  short,  we  were  sat- 
isfied with  our  own  goods  and  chattels :  and 
when  Julian  graciously  lent  Lena  the  turn- 
out to  go  to  town  in,  and  she  filled  the  cart 
bed  with  ripe  tomatoes  and  the  seat  with  her 
blue  person  and  Fritz,  its  perfect  adaptation 
to  her  uses  convinced  me  what  a  versatile 
and  valuable  bargain  ours  was. 

The  time  came  for  me  to  meet  and  bring 
home  Jennie  Purdy  from  the  Avenue  sta- 
tion. She  had  been  one  of  my  special  chums 
at  school.  I  always  loved  women ;  there 
seems  to  me  something  unwholesome  and  un- 
sound in  the  woman  who  proclaims  that  she 
hates  and  distrusts  all  of  her  own  sex.  At 
school  I  was  Jennie  Purdy's  easily-moulded 
slave :  she  dictated  what  I  should  wear  and 
how  I  should  conduct  myself.  I  denied  my- 
self many  a  game  of  croquet,  when  that  pas- 
time ^was  fresh,  to  sit  and  fan  her  while  she 
slept  off  some  slight  indisposition.  And  in 


206  T'FERGORE 

return  she  petted  and  instructed  me  in  all 
the  niceties  of  etiquette.  She  was  half  a 
dozen  years  my  senior,  and  at  that  time  en- 
joying a  small  fortune  of  her  own  ;  but  this 
was  afterward  lost,  and  she  had  many  a 
struggle  before  deciding  upon  and  mastering 
the  profession  of  medicine. 

Jennie  Purdy  was  one  of  the  most  fastidi- 
ous creatures  alive,  an  epicure,  and  unsparing 
of  herself  as  a  student.  Years  did  not  age, 
but  rather  ground  her  down  to  finer  delicacy. 
I  felt  considerable  pride  in  her,  and  counted 
on  having  her  at  hand  when  T'f ergore  came. 
She  did  not  lack  the  eccentricities  which 
always  cluster  around  any  woman  living  out- 
side of  intimate  family  life.  She  professed 
to  dislike  men ;  but  I,  knowing  her  warm 
heart,  knew  also  her  self-deception.  All 
isolated  women  fall  into  one  of  two  errors 
about  the  opposite  sex  :  they  count  mankind 
a  vast  monster,  to  be  avoided  and  suspected, 
or  a  vast  angel  to  be  worshiped  in  secrecy 
and  silence  ;  whereas,  men  are  only  good, 


T'FEEGORE  207 

comfortable  souls,  very  much  like  ourselves, 
but  made  a  little  stouter  so  they  can  hold  us 
and  spread  out  their  shoulders  for  irrigation 
when  we  want  to  cry. 

Though  Jennie  Purdy  held  dark  views  of 
mankind,  I  suspected  that  under  the  surface 
she  was  one  of  the  worshiping  ones.  Still, 
I  was  not  prepared  to  have  her  tell  me,  an 
hour  after  our  arrival  at  home,  that  she  was 
on  the  point  of  marriage. 

We  sat  down  in  T'fergore's  room,  where 
I  had  been  showing  her  the  appointments, 
and  I  pulled  a  hassock  to  her  side,  eager  for 
particulars.  She  should  be  married  from 
the  little  farm  instead  of  a  boarding-house, 
if  she  could  be  content  with  such  a  wedding 
as  we  could  give.  But  I  upbraided  her  for 
keeping  her  secret  from  me,  almost  as  seri- 
ously as  she  once  upbraided  me  for  daring  to 
marry  at  all. 

"  You  won't  want  me  to  be  married  here," 
said  Jennie,  with  a  snap.  "  You  '11  have  too 
many  prejudices." 


208  T'FERGORE 

"  But  I  always  thought  you  were  the  per- 
son with  prejudices,  dear,"  I  remonstrated, 
"  and  that  Julian  and  I  were  too  unconven- 
tional for  you." 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  a  divorced  man," 
disclosed  Jennie. 

I  caught  my  breath  and  said  "  Oh  !  " 

"  There  —  I  knew  it !  "  observed  Jennie. 

"  I  did  n't  say  anything  but  '  Oh.'  What 
made  him  get  divorced  ?  " 

"  You  don't  know  him,"  said  Jennie, 
"  and  so  you  can't  judge  of  the  circum- 
stances." 

"  But  you  might  try  me,"  I  pleaded. 
"  Has  he  been  divorced  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  About  a  month,"  owned  my  old,  fas- 
tidious chum,  turning  into  another  woman 
before  my  very  eyes.  She  never  was  pretty, 
but  a  certain  noble  pride  had  given  her  a 
carriage  I  enthusiastically  admired.  Now 
she  sat  before  me  a  dupe  of  her  own  absurd 
fancies,  half  defiant  and  half  apologetic. 
The  woman  who  had  taught  me  that  only 


T'FERGOEE  209 

most  serious  incompatibility  should  separate 
a  married  pair  was  going  to  wed  a  man  who 
had  been  divorced  one  month ! 

"  His  wife  was  never  a  fit  companion  for 
him." 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said. 

"  An  ignorant,  miserable  creature,  who 
entrapped  him  when  he  was  a  boy  and  has 
kept  him  down  in  the  world  ever  since." 

"  It 's  always  the  wife's  fault,"  I  said. 

"People  were  continually  asking  him 
how  he  came  to  marry  such  a  woman." 

"  And  he  let  the  question  pass  without 
knocking  down  the  questioner?" 

"  There  never  was  anything  fit  to  eat  in 
the  house,  and  his  clothes  were  never  fit  to 
wear." 

"  Poor  dear  !  "  I  observed.  "  Had  his 
income  anything  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  She  kept  him  from  getting  on,"  expos- 
tulated my  old  chum. 

"  And  he  brought  all  his  grievances  to 
you  for  redress  ?  " 


210  T'FEEGOEE 

"  I  expected  to  meet  nothing  but  preju- 
diced opposition  in  you,"  said  Jennie.  "  But 
of  course  I  was  bound  to  tell  you.  You  can- 
not say  anything  to  alter  my  determination." 

My  head  whirled  with  this  spectacle  of  a 
sane  woman  suddenly  gone  mad  over  a  worth- 
less man.  Shakespeare  never  touched  the 
weakness  of  womankind  so  closely  as  when 
he  made  Titania's  infatuation.  The  greater 
the  ass,  the  more  Titania  adores  him. 

"  I  hate  such  an  irregular  marriage  !  "  I 
said,  breathing  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  do,"  retorted  Jennie. 
"  You  're  the  slave  of  society.  You  would  n't 
have  the  courage  to  go  against  one  of  soci- 
ety's whims." 

"  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  courage  which 
tramples  on  decent  marriage  customs.  And 
you  were  the  first  to  teach  me  the  value 
of  an  irreproachable  standing  before  the 
world." 

"  It 's  easy  for  women  like  you,  who  know 
nothing  of  the  miseries  of  an  unequal  mar- 


T'FEIIGOKE  211 

riage,  to  take  a  high  moral  stand,"  said  my 
old  chum,  turning  whiter  always  as  our  talk 
sunk  lower.  I  was  afraid  Julian  would  hear 
us  and  come  down  from  the  painting-room 
overhead.  He  never  liked  Jennie  as  heart- 
ily as  I  thought  it  his  duty  to  like  her. 
And  he  laughed  at  the  little  barnacles  of 
whims  which  an  isolated  life  fastened  on 
her. 

All  the  time  I  was  talking  to  her  the 
fancied  image  of  T'fergore  was  before  my 
eyes. 

"  How  much  more  faithful  will  this  man 
be  to  you,"  I  went  on,  "  than  he  was  to  the 
woman  he  left  one  month  ago?  He  has 
somehow  cast  a  glamour  over  you.  I  know 
just  how  he  looks  —  a  great,  whimpering, 
Falstaffian  baby  of  a  thing,  coarse  to  his 
last  fibre !  " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Jennie. 

"  If  he  were  not  coarse  would  he  ever  al- 
low a  woman  standing  related  to  him  as  wife 
to  be  slurred  to  his  face  ?  Would  he  be  so 


212  T'FEBGORE 

ready  to  attach  his  mildewed  life  to  yours 
without  a  blemish  ?  " 

"  I  can't  hear  you  talk  so,"  said  Jennie. 
"  You  'd  better  let  me  go  away.  I  cannot 
stay  in  the  house." 

"  You  cannot  go  away,"  I  declared  fiercely. 
"  I  understand  now  why  parents  have  locked 
their  daughters  up." 

"  You  are  interfering  with  what  does  not 
concern  you  at  all,"  said  Jennie,  trembling, 
"and  not  in  the  least  altering  my  deter- 
mination. You  cannot  choose  my  fate  for 
me.  I  have  lived  a  lonely  life  year  after 
year.  Nobody  considered  me.  Why  am 
I  to  stand  on  nice  points  considering  every- 
body? He  thinks  I  can  make  him  happy. 
I  believe  he  will  treat  me  kindly." 

"You  have  every  warrant  for  believing 
that,"  I  exclaimed,  struggling  to  calm  my- 
self in  the  fear  that  I  was  going  to  make  a 
scene. 

"  I  have,"  said  Jennie,  with  a  kind  of 
pride  strange  in  her ;  "  for  he  provided  for 


TFEEGORE  213 

the  family  to  the  full  extent  of  his  means, 
before  separating  from  them." 

"So  he  had  children?  And  deserted 
them?" 

"  Five,"  replied  Jennie  in  embarrassment. 

"  Five  children !  And  he  provided  for 
them  by  taking  their  father  from  them  when 
they  needed  a  father  most!  " 

"  They  are  all  boys  but  the  youngest," 
said  Jennie." 

I  knew  now  that  I  was  going  to  make  a 
scene,  struggle  against  it  as  I  might. 

"  And  is  the  smallest  a  little  child  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  an  exceedingly  little  child,"  said 
Jennie,  picking  at  her  dress  and  not  seem- 
ing to  see  the  fingers  at  which  she  stared. 
"  Two  years  old,  I  believe." 

"  Don't  you  understand  about  family  life  ? 
Don't  you  see  what  a  callous  wretch  is  the 
man  who  can  abandon  his  own  flesh  and 
blood?  How  will  you  ever  close  your  eyes 
in  sleep  again  if  you  help  him  in  wronging 
that  little  child  —  that  little  child  !  " 


214  T'FERGOEE 

I  stood  up  from  my  seat  and  groped  to- 
ward her.  The  moment  of  my  own  weakness 
and  terror  was  coming. 

Jennie  took  hold  of  me  as  she  used  to  do 
at  school. 

"  I  have  spoken  out  to  you,"  I  said,  hang- 
ing to  her  neck ;  "  and  now  you  must  take 
care  of  me." 

She  saw  that  Tfergore  was  approaching 
the  house;  and  her  face  filled  with  tender 
solicitude  is  the  last  thing  I  can  recall  as  I 
fainted. 

PART  III 

THE   AMBROSIAL   YOUTH 

"  His  flesh  is  angel's  flesh,  all  alive." 

"  Honor  to  the  house  where  they  are  simple  to  the 
verge  of  hardship,  so  that  there  the  intellect  is  awake 
and  reads  the  laws  of  the  universe,  the  soul  worships 
truth  and  love,  honor  and  courtesy  flow  into  all  deeds." 

EMERSON. 

September  weather  was  over  the  world 
before  I  felt  able  to  be  carried  out  of  doors. 
I  had  been  very  ill,  but  at  my  worst  I  re- 


TFEBGOEE  215 

member  having  Jennie  on  my  mind,  and 
hanging  to  her  hand  while  I  pleaded  over 
and  over  the  cause  of  the  little  child. 

Now,  though  weak,  I  had  reached  a  state 
of  rapturous  convalescence,  and  reached  it 
quite  suddenly.  Julian  lifted  me  out  to  the 
shaded  lawn,  where  Jennie  had  wadded  a 
rocking-chair  with  pillows.  The  leaves  were 
turning,  but  none  had  fallen.  Lena's  birds 
hanging  in  a  row  along  the  eaves  of  the 
porch  kept  it  up  at  a  great  rate,  the  canary 
seeming  to  recognize  me  and  give  me  the 
name  he  had  long  since  invented  for  me : 
turning  his  head  and  calling  through  the 
bars,  "  Mae,  Mae !  " 

Lena  and  Fritz  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  grinned.  Lena  had  saved  the 
biggest  pear  on  the  dwarf  tree  for  me,  and 
Fritz  brought  a  nosegay  of  marigolds,  strong 
enough  to  stifle  many  invalids.  "  It 's  quite 
like  a  Harvest  Home,"  said  Julian.  "  We 
ought  to  strap  a  corn-shock  on  Leander's 
back  and  lead  him  in  the  procession." 


216  TFERGOEE 

Then  Jennie  went  into  the  house  to  bring 
out  T'fergore.  Jennie  was  not  only  my 
doctor,  but  she  had  turned  up  her  sleeves 
and  showed  Lena  how  to  cook  the  dishes  I 
could  eat.  She  had  discharged  two  nurses, 
one  after  the  other,  and  relied  on  herself 
and  Lena's  help,  and  Julian's  solicitude. 

"  You  never  know  what  a  woman  is  until 
you  try  her  in  a  family  crisis,"  said  Julian, 
sitting  down  near  me.  "  I  was  n't  enamored 
of  your  Dr.  Purdy  before,  but  I  '11  say  this 
of  her  now :  she  has  the  coolest  head,  the 
readiest  hand,  and  the  largest  fund  of  do- 
mestic skill  of  any  woman  I  ever  saw." 

"I  always  told  you  that,"  said  I  in  a 
superior  tone. 

"  She  's  stayed  by  us  to  the  neglect  of  her 
city  practice,  I  'm  afraid,"  said  Julian. 

"  She  is  just  getting  into  practice,"  I 
assured  him,  "  and  before  coming  out  here 
announced  her  intention  of  leaving  town  for 
a  change.  It  has  been  a  severe  change, 
though." 


TFERGOEE  217 

"But  a  man  has  been  here  importuning 
her  about  something." 

I  took  hold  of  the  arms  of  my  chair. 
"  What  kind  of  a  man,  Julian  ?  " 

"  Oh,  an  ordinary  person.  Nothing  strik- 
ing about  him.  I  thought  he  looked  very 
sulky  the  last  time  he  went  away." 

"  Jennie  was  short  with  him,  was  she  ?  " 

"  She  saw  him  only  a  few  minutes  each 
time,  after  the  first,  and  I  thought  she  was 
rather  peremptory.  There  's  Doctor  The- 
ophilus  again,  and  he  's  footed  it  from  the 
Avenue  station.  The  Reverend  never  was 
so  devoted  to  us  as  he  has  been  since  T'fer- 
gore's  arrival,"  said  Julian,  smiling  drolly. 

I  had  a  nervous  dread  of  Julian's  uncle ; 
he  was  the  most  respectable  man  who  ever 
had  the  right  to  add  Doctor  of  Divinity  to 
his  name.  Large,  broad,  and  ponderous,  his 
mere  presence  seemed  to  reprehend  the  play- 
ful antics  of  life.  I  was  afraid  of  his  long 
upper  lip,  which  shut  as  close  as  a  snuff-box 
lid.  His  white  neckties  awed  me,  and  the 


218  T'FERGORE 

solidity  of  his  choice  words  reproached  me. 
Behind  his  back,  and  in  spite  of  Julian's 
laughing  remonstrance,  I  had  rechristened 
Uncle  Doctor  Theophilus,  whose  surname 
was  Marvin,  The  Old  Daguerreotype.  It  is 
true  he  had  not  his  case  on,  though  the  snap 
with  which  it  formerly  shut  had  probably 
passed  into  his  lips.  I  could  even  fancy  that 
when  you  got  a  side-light  on  him  he  retained 
the  glare  of  the  old  daguerreotype,  and  ef- 
faced himself  in  a  sheet  of  glitter.  His  ex- 
pression seemed  unalterably  made  up ;  and 
though  he  looked  more  ancient  than  other 
men  of  his  age,  I  knew  he  thought  himself 
well  taken,  and  all  his  tints  neat  without 
being  gaudy.  He  oppressed  me  so  that  I 
frequently  wanted  to  rub  him  out.  I  always 
trod  on  a  stone  and  turned  my  foot,  or  ran 
against  a  chair,  when  the  Old  Daguerreotype 
was  by.  Or  he  threw  me  into  a  nervous 
trance,  and  I  sat  with  parted  lips,  glaring 
eyes,  and  aching  neck,  fancying  that  my  own 
daguerreotype  was  being  taken.  Aunt  Doctor 


TFEEGOEE  219 

Theophilus  used  to  be  a  worthy  companion 
picture  to  him,  but  death  years  ago  effaced 
her  lineaments  and  snapped  her  case  shut, 
to  be  opened  no  more. 

I  felt  that  I  could  hardly  stand  the  Old 
Daguerreotype  just  at  this  time,  but  said  to 
Julian  it  was  kind  of  him,  taken  in  such  a 
precise  attitude  as  he  was,  to  dust  himself 
walking  out  from  the  Avenue,  on  our  ac- 
count." 

"  Oh,  it  is  n't  the  first  time  he  has  done  it," 
said  Julian.  "  Something  about  our  rural 
domicile  has  seized  upon  Uncle  Doctor.  He 
did  n't  go  out  of  town  this  year,  and  he  's 
taking  whiffs  of  the  country  between  ser- 
mons." 

"  Between  poses,"  I  suggested  softly.  "  I 
hope  Jennie  is  n't  bothered  by  his  coming. 
She  takes  strong  antipathies,  and  he  does 
make  one's  backbone  ache." 

"  Oh,  she  stands  it,"  said  Julian  laughing, 
"  affably,  as  if  she  were  the  artist  who  had 
taken  him." 


220  TFEEGOEE 

I  turned  around  towards  Jennie  as  Julian 
went  to  the  gate  to  meet  his  uncle.  She  was 
bringing  T'fergore  across  the  porch  and 
smoothing  down  the  angel  robes.  She  her- 
self looked  like  a  Madonna  picture,  pale 
and  somewhat  saddened,  but  most  womanly, 
most  touching. 

"  Jennie,"  I  said,  as  she  put  T'fergore  on 
my  lap,  standing  before  me  to  do  so,  "  you 
have  taken  care  of  me  as  only  a  woman  can, 
and  pulled  me  through  to  paradise." 

"  Well,"  she  replied  quickly,  "  you  took 
care  of  me  first.  I  think  I  must  have  been 
out  of  my  senses.  But  having  this  little 
monster  to  handle  made  things  appear  very 
different." 

T'fergore  blinked  lazily,  and  struck  out 
with  ineffectual  fists.  The  cherub-wings 
were  perhaps  hidden  in  folds  of  mull,  but 
gazing  on  this  wonderful  creature's  allure- 
ments, I  was  seized  with  a  Saturn-like  de- 
sire to  bite  and  devour  every  flower-tinted 
atom.  I  forgot  that  the  Old  Daguerreotype 


TFEEGOEE  221 

was  at  the  gate,  and  worried  my  prey,  break- 
ing into  a  rhapsody  of  baby  Romany. 

In  the  midst  of  my  Bess'ums  and  S'ee- 
tums,  and  Old  Dol'ums,  Uncle  Doctor  ap- 
peared before  me,  and  bent  himself  at  T'fer- 
gore's  shrine,  with  an  expression  nearly  as 
idiotic  as  my  own.  He  clucked,  whistled, 
and  snapped  his  fingers,  and  for  one  moment 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  dance.  But  his 
legs  were  taken  too  stiffly  for  that,  and  he 
only  limbered  his  entire  length  and  cracked 
the  glass  in  a  way  which  damaged  him  for- 
ever as  my  Old  Daguerreotype. 

Then  he  straightened  himself  up  apolo- 
getically and  shook  hands  with  Jennie,  say- 
ing in  his  most  ministerial  tones,  "  And  how 
are  you  to-day,  Dr.  Jane  ?  " 

I  must  say  that  everything  Uncle  Doctor 
did  on  this  occasion  astonished  me.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  been  permitted  to  see  a 
visitor,  and  they  should  have  prepared  me 
for  the  unusual  side-lights  I  should  now 
catch  upon  the  Old  Daguerreotype.  He 


222  TFEEGOEE 

held  professional  women  in  disdain,  and  I 
had  heard  him  utter  homilies  against  wives 
who  tacked  all  their  maiden  or  acquired 
names  before  their  husband's  cognomen. 
Yet  here  he  was  parading  Dr.  Jane's  title, 
and  almost  capering  before  her  in  his  exu- 
berant desire  to  win  favor. 

They  sat  down  around  me,  and  I  noticed 
how  unembarrassed  Jennie  was  by  the  Da- 
guerreotype's white  tie  and  the  clip  of  his 
lips  and  fearful  respectability. 

"  A  little  daughter  in  the  house,"  said 
Uncle  Doctor  Theophilus,  indicating  with 
pomp  the  human  atom  in  my  lap,  "  is  indeed 
a  well-spring  of  pleasure." 

"  We  counted  on  her  brother  Trot  wood 
Copperfield,  instead  of  his  sister  Betsey  Trot- 
wood,"  said  Julian. 

"  It  was  a  mere  fancy,"  I  insisted,  "  and 
girls  are  just  as  good  as  boys  any  day." 

"  Better,"  granted  Julian. 

"I'm  quite  as  glad  that  T'fergore  is  a  girl." 

"  But  it  disarranges  the  name,"  said  Julian. 


TFERGORE  223 

"  His  name  was  Fergus  Dering,  but  I  think 
we  shall  have  to  call  her  Ferguson." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  dissented  indignantly." 

"  Tfergore  !  "  mused  Uncle  Doctor  The- 
ophilus.  "  What  kind  of  un-Christian  appel- 
lation have  you  stumbled  upon  there  ?  " 

"  The  name  being  Fergus,"  explained 
Julian,  "  we  call  her  —  as  Lena  would  put 
it  _  Tfergore  in  short." 

We  sat  in  silences  of  several  minutes  at  a 
time,  hearing  an  apple  drop  in  the  orchard, 
the  call  of  the  katydids,  or  the  restless  step- 
ping of  Leander  in  his  stable.  Already  the 
smoky  light  of  autumn  was  mellowing  dis- 
tances. 

"  How  uemote  this  little  spot  appears  to 
be  from  the  centres  of  traffic,"  said  Uncle 
Doctor  Theophilus,  with  a  pulpit  gesture. 

"  It 's  a  good  place  for  fever  patients,"  said 
Dr.  Jane  in  a  tone  of  authority.  "  There  's 
health  in  the  air  of  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I  should  apprehend  as  much,"  as- 
serted Uncle  Doctor  Theophilus. 


224  T'FEEGORE 

"You  mean  the  intellectual  atmosphere, 
of  course,"  said  Julian,  as  a  whiff  of  the  sauer- 
kraut Lena  did  love  came  around  the  house. 
"  Oh  yes,  we  are  remote,  but  we  have  had 
great  company  here.  Emerson  has  uttered 
wisdom  from  your  chair,  Uncle  Doctor,  and 
near  him  sat  Hawthorne,  and  against  that 
tree  leaned  Thoreau.  We  have  even  had 
what  some  fantastic  literary  fellow  calls  the 
tone  poets  all  around  us,  and  no  end  of 
painters  and  sketchers." 

"  It 's  nothing  but  a  play  of  ours,"  I 
explained.  "  Whenever  I  wished  we  had 
such  people  for  visitors,  Julian  piled  chairs 
full  of  their  books,  or  their  music,  or  stood 
up  copies  of  their  pictures.  Then  we  talked 
to  them,  and  Julian  read  from  them  in  reply, 
or  I  ran  over  the  musical  score,  or  he  hung 
a  picture  where  it  could  speak  for  itself. 
In  that  way  he  thinks  we  enjoyed  just  as 
close  communion  with  them  as  their  nearest 
friends  ever  had  ;  because  their  elusive  souls 
would  speak  to  us  more  directly  and  coher- 


T'FEEGOEE  225 

ently  than  if  they  were  sitting  opposite  us  in 
the  flesh." 

The  Old  Daguerreotype  shook  his  head 
indulgently  over  such  pastime.  On  delibera- 
tion, however,  he  said  the  next  time  we  had 
such  a  gathering  he  would  like  to  join  it. 

After  supper,  and  while  Uncle  Doctor 
Theophilus  and  Julian  were  trailing  their 
feet  through  the  grass,  carrying  their  hands 
behind  them,  and  all  but  chewing  the  bovine 
cud  in  their  ruminative  gazing  on  the  bee- 
hives, the  orchard,  the  stable,  and  meadow, 
Jennie  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves  to  drive 
our  relative  back  to  the  Avenue  station.  I 
knew  the  drive  would  be  good  for  her. 

"You  can  come  home  the  long  way, 
through  the  creek  —  the  water  is  always  low 
—  after  you  have  left  him  at  his  train,"  I 
hinted. 

"  I  guess  I  shall  go  the  long  way,"  said 
Jennie.  "  It  will  be  pleasanter  having  some 
one  to  talk  with." 

T'f ergore  and  I  exchanged  a  long  stare ; 


226  T'FERGORE 

that  is,  I  exchanged  a  long  stare  with  T'fer- 
gore  for  a  series  of  self-absorbed  blinks. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  I  then  remarked  to  Jen- 
nie, "  that  you  are  n't  put  out  by  the  old 
Dag  —  Doctor ;  when  I  say  old,  I  mean,  of 
course,  reverend  ;  for  he  is  n't  really  elderly, 
you  know." 

"  He  does  n't  put  me  out  a  bit,"  answered 
Jennie.  "He  is  very  quieting  to  me.  I 
believe  he  is  a  sound  man." 

"There  is  no  man  sounder,"  I  declared. 
"  And  he  was  just  as  good  as  he  could  be  to 
his  wife.  I  think  she  actually  died  because 
there  was  nothing  more  she  could  ask  of  life. 
I  never  saw  such  a  self-satisfied  expression 
as  she  had  —  outside  of  a  miniature.  His 
position  is  excellent  and  influential,  too.  A 
woman  can't  help  looking  at  that  sort  of 
thing  when  she  is  once  married." 

Jennie  turned  about  to  face  me,  smiling. 
"  Now,  don't,  my  dear,  don't,"  she  objected. 
"  Let  us  not  give  our  talk  any  such  bias." 
"  Oh,  I  won't,"  I  exclaimed  apprehensively. 


T'FEEGORE  227 

"  I  'm  not  throwing  anybody  at  you  at  all. 
I  was  just  going  to  say  that  though  he  is 
such  an  excellent  man,  and  near  to  Julian 
and  all  that,  he  ossifies  the  working  of  my 
joints :  I  feel  in  such  awe  of  him." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Jennie. 

"  Yes  ;  I  've  noticed  that." 

"  I  think  his  society  is  wholesome  for 
me." 

"  Yes ;  it  seems  to  be  mutual,"  I  could 
not  help  suggesting.  "  Either  you  or  T'fer- 
gore  is  limbering  him  up  until  I  do  believe 
in  the  course  of  time  his  presence  will  be- 
come wholesome  for  we." 

Leander,  drawing  Jennie  and  the  Old 
Daguerreotype  in  our  red  cart,  went  briskly 
down  the  road,  and  Julian  and  T'f  ergore  and 
I  sat  watching  them. 

"  They  will  loiter  through  the  woods," 
mused  I,  "  and  watch  the  festoons  of  grape- 
vine, and  get  a  sniff  of  sycamore  leaves  and 
pennyroyal  mixed  with  loam." 

"Yes,"  said  Julian.     " Next  week  I  shall 


228  T'FERGORE 

take  you  and  Ferguson  off  through  the  wood- 
siest  drive  of  them  all." 

"  Julian,"  I  remonstrated,  "  her  name  is  n't 
and  it  never  will  be  Ferguson." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Julian,  "  the  bill  is  laid 
on  the  table  then.  Another  motion  will  be 
in  order." 

"  And  they  '11  see  bunches  of  goldenrod 
in  a  thicket,"  I  continued,  returning  to 
Leander's  load,  "and  the  Old  Daguerreo- 
type will  jump  out  to  get  it  for  her,  footing 
it  light somely  among  the  burrs." 

"You  make  quite  a  beau  of  our  uncle," 
said  Julian,  turning  his  cigar  over. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  anybody  could  see 
that 's  what  he  wants  to  be  considered." 

"  He  has  my  consent,"  said  Julian. 

"  Mine,  too,"  said  I,  taking  high  grounds  ; 
"  but  I  'm  not  so  sure  about  Jennie.  She  's 
a  woman  who  has  been  hard  to  suit.  Nothing 
else  stood  in  the  way  of  her  marrying  long 
ago." 

I  looked  keenly  at  Julian,  but  he  evidently 


T'FERGORE  229 

knew  naught  about  the  one  month  divorced 
man  with  a  wife  and  five  children  —  the 
youngest  two  years  old.  It  was  the  only 
secret  I  had  ever  kept  from  him,  and  it 
burned  guiltily  at  the  roots  of  my  tongue. 
But  the  woman  who  reveals  to  her  lord  and 
master  some  unlovely  weakness  of  her  own 
sex  helps  him  to  a  judgment-seat  too  dan- 
gerously lofty. 

"  She 's  what  you  may  really  call  supe- 
rior," admitted  Julian,  "  but  far  enough  into 
the  woods  to  be  afraid  of  the  crooked  stick. 
And  Uncle  Theoph.  is  n't  so  bad." 

"  No,"  I  granted  generously :  "  he  does  n't 
make  me  ha,  f  as  miserable  as  he  used  to. 
And  I  know  he  won't  mind  getting  bugs 
down  his  neck  and  stumbling  over  old  logs 
for  yellow  and  chocolate  colored  pawpaw 
leaves  and  branches  of  ^re-red  maple,  if 
Jennie  wants  him  to." 

"  I  wonder,"  Julian  ruminated,  "  if  Aunt 
Marvin  ever  made  him  dance  around  when 
they  were  young  together  and  she  had  a  rib- 


230  T'FERGOEE 

bon  headdress  on  her  hair,  and  he  choked 
himself  with  a  stock." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  she  was  his  first  wife." 

Julian  reached  over,  at  the  risk  of  wak- 
ing T'fergore,  and  laid  his  arm  across  my 
shoulder. 

"Besides,  she  never  cried,"  I  added. 
"  And  a  good  husband  is  just  like  a  growing 
crop :  he  needs  to  be  rained  on." 

Julian  uttered  a  little  grunt  of  contempt, 
but  it  was  the  kind  of  contempt  which  mag- 
nified the  importance  of  his  own  sex  and 
therefore  did  no  real  harm  to  ours. 

"  Uncle  Doctor  Theophik;  is  lonely,"  said 
Julian,  "having  once  lived  the  life  of  a 
family  man." 

"And  Jennie  is  lonely,  too,"  I  admitted, 
"  having  never  lived  the  life  of  a  family 
woman.  Think  hrfw  hard  it  is  to  stand  out- 
side of  —  say  the  little  farm  —  and  see  T'fer- 
gore come  home,  and  our  comfort  and  satis- 
faction." 

"Man:  his  wife :  his  child:"  ruminated 


T'FERGOEE  231 

Julian.  "  The  family  ;  the  little  spot  of  our 
own  ground.  That 's  the  primitive  and  true 
life." 

We  heard  the  creek  frogs  lifting  up  their 
voices. 

"Next  summer  when  T'fergore  is  big 
enough  to  be  carried  across  the  field,"  said 
I,  "  I  will  make  a  Kate  Greenaway  dress 
with  a  yoke,  and  flare  a  hat  of  muslin  for 
her,  or  better  still,  pucker  her  face  into  a 
frilly  cap,  and  set  her  down  in  the  midst  of 
the  clover  where  there  are  n't  any  bees." 

"And  put  a  crook  in  her  hand,"  said 
Julian.  "  For  now  we  are  her  sheep.  We 
can't  stray  across  blue  water  until  the  shep- 
herdess permits." 


ILLINOIS 


BEETRUS 

TIME,  1881 

"  BEETRUS  JENKINS  !  "  called  the  owner 
of  the  name,  sending  her  high  clear  voice 
through  the  boxed  space  which  served  as 
post-office  window. 

"  Yes,  'm,"  responded  the  postmaster,  with 
that  joking  freedom  which  adds  so  much 
spice  to  the  life  of  a  general-storekeeper  at 
a  South  Illinois  railroad  station.  "  Three 
letters  this  time.  He  's  writing  nearly  every 
day." 

"It  wears  on  you  to  keep  track  of  my 
correspondence,  don't  it?  "  affirmed  the  girl, 
taking  her  letters  and  rending  them  open 
with  impatient  forefinger.  They  were  all 
addressed,  in  the  same  mercantile  hand,  to 
Miss  Beatrice  Jenkins,  Wabash  Station,  Illi- 
nois. She  compared  the  dates  of  the  post- 


236  BEETEUS 

marks,  and  opened  the  earliest,  standing  by 
the  door  to  read. 

The  smoke-dimmed  interior  of  the  store 
was  hung  with  baskets,  dry-goods,  bacon, 
ready-made  clothing,  and  boots  and  shoes. 
A  skeleton  flight  of  steps  ascended  across 
a  background  of  wall  to  the  proprietor's 
residence,  and  up  this  flight  of  steps  went 
a  neighbor's  barefooted  child  with  a  coffee- 
pot to  borrow  some  household  necessity, 
while  Beetrus  read  her  mail. 

She  was  a  spot  of  mellow  color  betwixt 
brilliant  autumn  tints  outside  and  the  dim 
inclosure.  The  slim,  long-fingered  hands 
holding  her  letters  were  nicely  gloved.  Her 
white  hat  was  covered  with  plumes  just  own- 
ing the  salmon-pink  tint  of  her  small  woolen 
shawl.  Her  dress  was  neutral  and  unobtru- 
sive. Not  so,  however,  were  her  black 
eyes  and  glowing  cheeks,  or  the  dark  hair 
clustering  to  her  ears.  She  was  a  very 
pretty  girl,  and  this  the  station-master  al- 
ways mentally  admitted.  He  came  out  of 


BEETEUS  237 

his  post-office  cubby  with  the  mail-bag  in 
his  hand. 

"  So  you  're  going  to  clear  out  to-day, 
Bee?" 

She  glanced  up,  perceptibly  starting  and 
coloring. 

"  Goin'  by  rail  or  by  river?  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Beetrus.  "  Yes,  we  're  go- 
ing up  the  river.  Our  things  are  packed  on 
the  White  Dove.  We  'd  have  to  go  so  far 
around  and  pay  so  much  freight  the  other 
way.  But  I  don't  like  to  go  on  a  freight 
boat,  and  neither  does  ma,  though  the  men 
are  just  as  kind  and  clever  as  they  can  be. 
We  have  to  sit  upon  deck  all  night,  too, 
among  the  machinery  and  grease." 

"  Yes,  you  will.  It 's  a  twelve  hours'  run 
betwixt  this  and  New  Harmony  against  the 
current.  The  White  Dove  starts  about 
three  o'clock  Will  you  be  down  any  during 
the  winter?" 

"  I  guess  not.  Our  man  and  his  wife  can 
tend  to  everything  on  the  farm.  We  never 


238  BEETRUS 

do  run  back  and  forth  any  after  cold  weather 
sets  in." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  '11  put  the  time  in 
dancin'  and  takin'  music  lessons  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  so  very  lively  in  Harmony ;  but 
I  'm  going  on  with  my  music  —  That  is  n't 
the  train  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  responded  the  station-master, 
swinging  the  mail-bag  as  he  walked  forth  to 
keep  appointment  with  the  black  and  hissing 
locomotive  sliding  to  its  brief  pause. 

Beetrus  flew  through  the  store,  ran  down 
the  back  steps,  and  sheltered  herself  in 
woods  which  stretched  away  toward  the  Wa- 
bash.  Swift  as  her  exit  was,  she  scarcely 
escaped  the  eye  of  a  young  man  who  swung 
himself  off  the  train,  sample  case  in  hand. 
His  face  twinkled  humorously,  which  it 
could  very  well  do,  being  a  pleasant  mus- 
tached  face  in  spite  of  the  marks  of  dissipa- 
tion it  bore.  His  trim  dress  and  brisk  air 
bespoke  the  prosperous  commercial  traveler. 

He   went   indoors  and  swept  a  business- 


BEETRUS  239 

like  glance  around  before  the  train  steamed 
away ;  therefore  by  the  time  the  station- 
master  had  put  up  the  mail  and  served  one 
or  two  customers,  he  had  a  satisfactory  order 
written  out,  and  professed  himself  ready  to 
mount  the  next  train,  for  which  he  would 
have  to  wait  quite  two  hours. 

"  Oh,  you  know  how  to  put  the  time  in," 
said  the  station-master,  "  as  long  as  we  have 
any  pretty  girls  left  in  the  neighborhood." 

The  drummer  smiled  out  of  the  back  door 
at  a  huddle  of  two  or  three  cabins  and  board 
huts,  as  if  the  capacity  of  such  a  place  for 
producing  pretty  girls  was  too  contemptible 
a  joke  for  him  to  meddle  with.  He  said  he 
guessed  he  would  go  down  to  the  landing 
and  see  if  he  could  n't  get  a  skiff  a  while. 

"  Bee  Jenkins  will  be  down  that  way," 
suggested  the  station-master.  "  She  was  in 
here  a  minute  ago." 

"  Ran  from  me,"  noted  the  drummer. 

"  I  'd  kind  of  advise  her  to,  if  she  hadn't," 
said  the  station-keeper. 


240  BEETBUS 

"  What 's  the  objection  to  me  ?  "  laughed 
the  drummer  ;  "  I  ?m  only  a  good  gray  sin- 
ner. They  '11  have  to  dip  me  several  times 
more  before  I  'm  as  black  as  you  South  Illi- 
nois Egyptians." 

"  Old  lady  Jenkins  will  have  a  crow  to 
pick  with  you,  though,  if  she  happens  to 
drop  onto  all  these  letters  and  walks." 

"You  undertake  too  much,"  said  the 
drummer,  shaking  his  head  with  gentle  per- 
suasiveness. "  The  store  and  post-office  and 
station  and  the  neighborhood  will  accumu- 
late, and  be  too  many  for  you." 

Beetrus  saw  him  sauntering  on  her  track. 
The  blood  was  buzzing  in  her  head,  and  she 
hid  herself  upon  a  pile  of  steep  high  rocks, 
obeying  some  wild  impulse  of  which  she  felt 
ashamed.  To  follow  him  with  her  eyes  and 
be  herself  invisible  was  an  impersonal  rap- 
ture in  which  she  could  indulge  without  giv- 
ing it  too  great  advantage.  Yet,  when  he 
disappeared  near  the  river,  she  felt  a  sting- 
ing check  in  her  heart,  and  a  sense  of  hav- 
ing inflicted  loss  and  robbery  upon  herself. 


BEETEUS  241 

To  Beetrus  he  was  the  walking  essence  of 
the  world,  representing  not  only  its  mighty 
business,  but  its  advantages  of  culture  and 
travel.  She  never  had  been  from  home 
except  to  Evansville  and  New  Harmony ; 
and  he  never  stayed  two  nights  in  a  place, 
and  spoke  with  fatigue  of  his  exciting  life. 
What  operas  he  had  seen !  —  for  in  Bee- 
trus's  chaotic  imagination  all  theatrical  per- 
formance was  opera,  and  operas  were  the 
distinct  possessions  of  the  worldly. 

She  resented  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and 
daring  the  greatness  of  his  relatives.  He 
was  a  nephew  of  the  head  of  his  commercial 
house,  and  his  grandfather  had  been  a  con- 
gressman ;  while  her  background  was  the 
pioneer's  cabin,  the  pecan  woods,  and  Wa- 
bash  rocks  and  hills. 

Beetrus  was  the  child  of  a  shrewd  though 
romance-soaked  mother,  who  had  dowered 
her  with  something  more  than  a  mispro- 
nounced fine  name  and  biased  imagination. 
It  is  strange  to  think  how  large  a  human 


242  BEETEUS 

mass,  moving  this  instant  in  grooves  of 
practical  action,  is  protesting  with  secret 
scorn  against  all  its  conditions.  Beetrus 
was  full  of  a  girl's  unrests  and  eccentric  im- 
pulses. She  thought  she  knew  exactly  what 
she  wanted  for  her  happiness. 

She  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  rock 
lichens,  taking  a  half-inverted  view  of  the 
autumn  tangle,  and  glad  in  spite  of  herself 
for  the  pleasant  breath  of  life.  It  was 
worth  while  to  be  a  part  of  such  woods  and 
river  vistas,  and  to  smell  all  th#  ground's 
odors.  Some  little  living  thing  ran  along  a 
log  not  far  from  her ;  and  she  could  hear 
a  squirrel  bark,  a  whish  and  a  whisper  of 
loosened  leaves  as  they  were  sent  adrift,  and 
then  the  dropping  of  a  nut.  Strong  as  the 
sunlight  was,  she  shivered  upon  the  rocks, 
and  then  felt  all  her  blood  burn,  beat,  and 
tremble. 

The  commercial  traveler  was  walking 
back  with  a  brisk  step  from  the  river,  and 
scanning  every  opening  among  the  trees,  as 


BEETEUS  243 

if  on  an  eager  search.  He  saw  Beetrus  ris- 
ing and  tightening  her  pink  shawl  on  her 
shoulders,  and  halted  with  a  jerk. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  "  was  his  un- 
ceremonious exclamation. 

"  Up  here,  reading  my  letters  and  viewing 
the  country." 

"  You  saw  me  go  past,  then,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Was  it  you  ?  "  said  she,  fitting  her  foot 
deftly  to  the  steep  descent. 

"  Let  me  lift  you  down.  How  pretty  you 
look  this  morning !  " 

"Oh!  don't  talk  about  pretty,  Mr. 
Poundstone,"  said  Beetrus,  dyed  in  color, 
after  he  had  stood  her  upon  the  moss,  dazed 
as  she  always  was  by  his  prevailing  presence. 

"  You  ought  n't  to  have  hid ;  I  want  to 
talk  up  a  scheme  with  you  right  off.  It 
popped  into  my  head  since  I  got  off  the 
train." 

"  What  scheme  ?  "  said  Beetrus,  hugging 
her  shawl  and  looking  over  her  shoulder  to 
simulate  complete  indifference. 


244  BEETEUS 

"  You  know  well  enough,  or  can  guess. 
We  must  n't  be  parted,  my  dear  girl ;  I 
can't  run  up  to  New  Harmony  every  time 
I  make  a  trip  down  this  way.  Think  of 
the  long  winter.  Don't  you  want  to  see  me 
this  winter  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  yes,"  she  admitted,  with  a  gasp. 

"  I  want  to  see  you.  I  want  to  have  you 
entirely  to  myself,  to  look  forward  to  every 
time  I  come  in  off  the  road.  Let 's  get 
married." 

Beetrus  visibly  expanded  and  contracted 
with  a  great  breath. 

"  Get  on  the  train  and  go  over  to  Evans- 
ville  with  me,  and  we  '11  have  the  minister 
tie  the  knot  there.  Then  home.  And  a 
nice  little  private  set  of  rooms,  all  quiet  and 
to  ourselves,  and  no  relations  to  bother  us." 

"  But  ma 's  fixed  things  to  go  up  to  New 
Harmony  for  the  winter,"  whispered  Bee- 
trus, struggling  with  this  vision.  "  And  she 
would  n't  change  her  mind  so  suddenly  — 
'specially  as  she  does  n't  know  you  real  well." 


BEETEUS  *  245 

"  It  is  n't  ma  I  want  to  marry,"  argued 
Poundstone,  using  his  winning  smile.  "  I  '11 
drop  my  relations,  and  you  can  surely  do 
the  same." 

"  Drop  ma !  " 

The  girl  was  stung  by  a  covert  insult. 

"  Leave  her  a  little  while.  Let  her  go  up 
to  New  Harmony,  you  know." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  about  dropping 
your  relations  ?  "  demanded  Beetrus,  growing 
straighter  and  more  self-assured,  and  burning 
more  vividly  in  the  cheeks.  "That  they 
wouldn't  want  to  be  acquainted  with  ma 
and  me  ?  No,  sir ;  I  ain't  going  to  let  her 
go  up  to  New  Harmony  alone ;  and  I  never 
would  seriously  have  you  unless  she  knew  all 
about  it  and  was  willing.  She  might  have 
read  your  letters  if  she  wanted  to  ;  she  knows 
about  them.  I  never  did  anything  in  my  life 
that  ma  told  me  not  to  do." 

"  I  thought  five  minutes'  talk  on  this  sub- 
ject would  bring  you  to  reason,"  remon- 
strated Poundstone. 


246  BEETRUS 

"  Then  you  did  n't  calculate  right." 

"  So  it  seems." 

"  I  'm  not  the  girl  you  took  me  for." 

"  Do  you  want  to  break  off  with  me  en- 
tirely ?  "  he  exclaimed,  with  heat. 

"  Yes  —  come  to  that  —  I  do !  "  cried  Bee- 
trus,  flinging  his  letters  at  him,  two  flutter- 
ing uncertain,  but  one  moulded  by  the  grip 
of  her  hand  and  darting  like  a  missile.  "  I 
believed  in  you,  and  see  how  you  've  treated 
me!" 

"  My  darling  girl !  " 

"  Don't  you  come  around  in  my  sight  any 
more.  And  go  marry  somebody  that  won't 
cause  any  dropping.  I  can  stand  it." 

"  I  believe  you  can,"  he  sneered. 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  I  can  stand  it.  So  good-by 
to  you." 

Saying  which,  Beetrus  turned  and  scudded 
off,  through  Spanish  needles  and  boggy  spots, 
until  his  first  half -uttered  remonstrance  had 
been  for  some  time  changed  into  language 
of  another  sort. 


BEETRUS  247 

It  seemed  long  before  Beetrus  found  a  log 
on  which  she  could  draw  herself,  face  down- 
ward, with  her  arms  stretched  beyond  her 
head. 

The  White  Dove  moved  off  from  Wabash 
Landing  two  hours  behind  her  appointed 
time.  She  was  a  dirty  little  boat,  carrying 
a  miscellaneous  freight,  but  among  the  bar- 
rels on  the  after-deck  some  hard-favored  and 
much-whittled  chairs  had  been  placed  for 
Beetrus  and  her  mother. 

The  young  girl  herself  stood  by  the  rope 
which  served  for  railing,  and  saw  her  own 
heartache  color  all  those  fair  distances. 
Downy  swells  of  remote  banks  and  bold  juts 
of  rock  were  copied  in  the  river,  so  ruffleless 
did  it  seem  to  lie  even  when  the  strong  cur- 
rent was  moving.  A  blue  heron  stood  at  the 
water  edge  meditating,  with  one  foot  planted 
on  sand  and  the  other  tucked  up.  It  slightly 
spread  its  mighty  wings,  shook  them,  and 
folded  them  again  to  place,  without  appear- 
ing to  break  the  trance  of  its  downward  stare. 


248  BEETRUS 

While  the  White  Dove  churned  along, 
shadows  stretched  upon  the  Wabash.  Now 
it  was  very  late  afternoon,  and  now  it  threat- 
ened to  be  evening,  with  a  hint  that  by  and 
by  it  would  be  night,  when  you  might  expect 
the  woods  to  make  deep  black  borders  along 
the  river,  and  the  canopy  of  stars  to  look 
smeared  by  the  little  steamer's  smokestack. 

When  Beetrus  was  pale  and  tired,  she 
turned  and  leaned  against  her  mother  —  an 
ample,  indulgent  woman,  who  nevertheless 
had  one  bristling  mole  upon  the  right  side 
of  her  face.  She  broke  the  tacit  silence  in 
which  they  had  begun  their  journey  by  de- 
claring, "  Ma,  I  love  you." 

"  You  don't  often  put  a  body  out  telling 
them  that,"  responded  Mrs.  Jenkins,  uttering 
a  gratified  laugh. 

"  I  keep  up  a  dreadful  loving,  though," 
said  Beetrus,  casting  side  wise  at  the  river 
black  eyes  which  swam  in  waters  of  their 
own. 

"  You  're  my  baby,"  cooed  her  mother,  pat- 


BEETEUS  249 

ting  the  slim  hand  fondling  her  neck. 
"  There 's  plenty  of  pretty  young  men  in  the 
world,  but  there 's  only  one  old  mother." 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  young 
men,"  said  Beetrus,  with  strong  scorn.  "  I 
was  thinking  a  good  while  in  the  woods  to- 
day, coming  from  the  post-office,  and  I  've 
made  up  my  mind  never  to  get  married." 

"  You  '11  turn  around  often  enough  before 
the  time  comes." 

"I  never  will," emphasized  Beetrus.  "We'll 
be  two  nice  old  ladies  together,  ma,  and  nei- 
ther of  us  will  get  married." 

"  I  won't,  for  a  sure  thing,"  laughed  her 
mother.  "  But  you  '11  only  be  middle-aged 
when  I  'm  ready  to  totter." 

"  Yes,  that 's  so,"  said  Beetrus  sadly.  "And 
then  if  one  would  die  and  leave  the  other  " — 

"  Now,  now,  don't  you  fret,  lovey.  I  've 
had  consider'ble  trouble  and  experience,  and 
if  I  don't  sigh  round,  you  need  n't.  Who 's 
that  nice-looking  man  that  keeps  looking 
back  this  way  ?  " 


250  BEETEUS 

Beetrus  had  been  facing  down  river,  with 
her  mind  completely  closed  to  any  moving 
figures  on  deck.  She  glanced  back  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Why,  it 's  " —  she  exclaimed,  swallowing 
her  breath  with  a  gasp  —  "  it 's  Mr.  Pound- 
stone." 

"  That  correspondent  of  yours  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Jenkins,  nodding  her  head,  and  inspecting 
him  sincerely  with  such  thoroughness  as  in- 
tervening barrels  permitted. 

Beetrus's  ears  rang.  She  had,  however, 
that  instinctive  western  courage  which  some- 
times takes  the  place  of  disciplined  self- 
control;  so  by  no  other  clue  than  the  deep- 
ening fire  of  her  cheeks  and  eyes  did  she 
give  Mr.  Poundstone  any  knowledge  of  the 
disturbance  he  brought  her  when  he  climbed 
a  passage  over  impediments  and  placed  him- 
self in  the  party. 

His  manner  was  subdued,  even  becomingly 
humble  and  conciliatory. 

"  Ma,  this  is  Mr.  Poundstone,"  said  Bee- 


BEETRUS  251 

trus,  secretly  triumphant  in  being  free  from 
the  subservience  which  yesterday  would  have 
made  her  say,  "  Mr.  Poundstone,  this  is  my 
mother." 

She  did  not  add  to  her  unconsidered  for- 
mula now,  but  allowed  him  to  lift  his  hat 
and  bow  over  her  mother's  hand. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Jenkins," 
said  he.  "  I  want  to  make  friends  with  you, 
and  get  you  to  convince  your  daughter  I  'm 
not  such  a  bad  fellow  as  I  look." 

"  You  don't  look  like  a  bad  fellow,"  she 
responded  heartily. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  going  up  on 
the  boat,"  said  Beetrus,  regarding  with  gen- 
tle indifference  the  brim  of  his  hat,  after  he 
replaced  it. 

"  You  know  I  could  n't  go  off  on  the  train 
and  leave  matters  in  the  shape  they  are.  I 
never  sold  a  bill  of  goods  in  New  Harmony 
in  my  life,  but  I'm  going  to  try  to  make 
a  satisfactory  trade  for  myself  now,  if  the 
house  turns  me  off  for  it." 


252  BEETRUS 

Beetrus  parted  her  lips  smiling,  and  this 
time  met  him  in  the  eyes.  Without  formu- 
lating the  fact,  she  knew  there  was  sterling 
man  under  the  crust  of  acquired  coarseness. 
The  brutal  plan  he  had  formed  concerning 
her,  and  which  he  was  now  scarcely  willing 
to  acknowledge  to  himself,  began  to  withdraw 
from  betwixt  them  like  the  mist  which  al- 
ready wavered  on  the  hills. 

"  I  believe  it  will  be  a  clear  day  to-mor- 
row," the  girl  said,  falling  back  upon  good 
commonplace. 

"  Do  you  believe  it  will  be  a  clear  day  to- 
morrow, Mrs.  Jenkins  ? "  inquired  Pound- 
stone. 

"  Well,  it  seems  like  it  might  be  pretty," 
responded  the  widow,  turning  up  her  face  to 
see  the  pinkness  reflected  from  the  west. 

"  Then  I  believe  it  will  too,"  said  the  com- 
mercial traveler,  with  a  devout  air,  which  was 
unmoved  by  Beetrus' s  laughing  out,  — 

"  A  great  deal  prettier  and  clearer  than 
to-day  has  been." 


THE  BEIDE  OF  AKNE  SANDSTROM 

TIME,  1885 

"  BIG  Swede  wedding  over  there  this 
evening,"  said  one  passer  to  another  by  his 
side.  "  Peter  Lund's  daughter." 

"  Is  she  marrying  a  Swede  ? "  inquired 
the  second. 

"  Yes  ;  fellow  by  the  name  of  Arne  Sand- 
strom." 

"  I  should  think  old  Peter,  well  off  as  he 
is,  would  have  looked  higher  for  a  son-in-law 
—  you  or  me,  for  instance,"  observed  the 
second  youth,  with  a  laugh. 

"  The  girl 's  pretty  as  a  pink,  and  has  had 
every  advantage.  It  is  a  pity  to  see  her 
thrown  away ;  but  old  Peter  has  a  lot  of 
younger  ones  coming  on." 

"  That  makes  it  less  an  object.  I  thought 
she  was  his  only.  The  Swedes  are  clannish." 


254     THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM 

"  Peter  Lund's  is  headquarters  for  them, 
too.  Here 's  one  now,  hunting  up  the  wed- 
ding. I  '11  bet  she 's  just  arrived  from  the 
old  country." 

So  near  the  truth  was  this  surmise  that 
Elsa  had  been  off  the  train  only  twenty 
minutes,  and  in  that  time  had  repeated  the 
name  of  Arne  Sandstrom  interrogatively  to 
every  person  she  met.  She  was  dazed  by 
long  riding  and  partial  fasting,  and  the 
dumb  terror  of  finding  no  one  to  receive  her 
at  the  end  of  her  great  journey.  The  letter 
created  with  much  brain-work  to  announce 
her  coming  ought  to  have  been  in  his  hands 
weeks  ago.  The  innocent  and  friendless 
soul  did  not  know  she  had  omitted  all  dates 
and  exactness  in  her  general  care  for  spell- 
ing and  inky  loops.  So  stepping  off  the 
train  into  the  American  town  at  dusk,  she 
saw  stretches  of  summer  prairie  to  the  west- 
ward, perky  architecture,  crossing  railroad 
tracks,  hurrying  citizens,  and  lazy  loungers 
—  even  the  new  electric  light  on  its  spider- 


THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM    255 

work  iron  tower  beginning  to  make  a  ghastly 
powerful  star  far  above  her  head.  She  saw 
baggage  and  piles  of  express  matter,  hotel 
runners,  and  other  women,  starting  toward 
their  assured  homes,  tucked  laughing  and 
chatting  under  their  husbands'  arms  ;  but  she 
saw  not  one  face  or  one  kind  hand  ready  to 
bid  her  welcome,  who  had  ventured  thou- 
sands of  miles  alone  —  across  ocean,  across 
continent  —  to  marry  her  betrothed  lover, 
Arne  Sandstrom. 

Hearing  his  name  spoken,  she  stood  still 
upon  the  sidewalk,  shrinking  and  timid,  but 
directly  in  front  of  the  young  men,  and  in- 
quired, using  hands  and  eyes  as  well  as 
anxious  inflection  of  voice,  "  Arne  Sand- 
strom ?  " 

"  She  wants  to  know  where  Arne  Sand- 
strom is.  Right  over  there  —  that  big 
house,  which  you  see  lighted  up.  She 
does  n't  understand.  Arne  Sandstrom  over 
there.  Getting  married !  Yes,  yes.  Arne 
Sandstrom.  Here,  Jack,  you  trot  out  a  lit- 


256     THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM 

tie     Swedish,    can't    you  ?      You  've    been 
among  them  more  than  I  have." 

"  Arne  Sandstrom  derover,"  exclaimed  the 
other,  pointing  to  Peter  Lund's  house,  with 
a  fine  assumption  of  handling  the  language 
well.  "  Arne  Sandstromy^a  to-night,  you 
know." 

"  Yifta !  "  said  Elsa,  shrinking  down  in 
stature. 

"  She  's  got  hold  of  it.  That 's  all  right. 
You  '11  be  in  time  for  the  wedding." 

"  She  did  n't  understand ;  she  thought  we 
were  making  fun  of  her,"  said  one  of  the 
lads  as  they  sauntered  on. 

"  She  did  understand,  and  there  she  goes 
straight  across  the  street.  Brush  up  in  the 
languages,  young  man,  and  make  yourself 
as  useful  to  the  public  as  I  am." 

When  Elsa  had  entered  the  Lund  pre- 
mises, however,  she  did  not  ring  the  bell, 
but  wavered  around  the  house,  looking  up  at 
lighted  windows,  and  shifting  her  little  bun- 
dle from  one  arm  to  the  other.  She  had 


THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM  257 
other  baggage  at  the  station,  but  it  seemed 
no  longer  worth  while.  There  was  a  western 
veranda,  on  the  lowest  step  of  which  she  sat 
down  in  quiet  stupor  to  collect  herself  for 
some  determined  movement. 

Anguish  and  disappointment  must  be  the 
natural  lot  in  this  'world,  only  she  had  not 
lived  enough  years  to  find  it  out  before. 
Though  summer  darkness  had  come,  the 
after-glow  was  still  so  bright  in  the  west  that 
it  half  quarreled  with  abundant  lamplight. 
Elsa  could  hear  the  front  gate,  the  crunch  of 
coming  footsteps,  and  frequent  peals  of  the 
door-bell,  as  she  sat  drawn  together,  and  the 
eternal  minutes  traveled  on. 

Peter  Lund's  house  was  full  of  joyful  stir. 
China  and  silver  tinkled  in  the  open  dining- 
room,  where  several  women  were  putting  last 
touches  to  the  tables.  Girls  flew  up  and 
down  the  back  stairway,  calling  to  one  an- 
other in  Swedish. 

"  One  thing  is  sure,  Yennie  Yonsen," 
called  a  voice  in  the  home  tongue,  "  there 


258     THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM 

will  not  be  enough  married  women  to  take 
the  bride  from  us  girls  in  the  wedding  dance ; 
so  now  what  will  Arne  Sandstrom  do  ?  " 

Three  of  them  conspired  together  by  the 
western  dining-room  door,  bobbing  their 
flaxen  heads,  all  laughing  and  talking  at 
once  in  their  light  happiness,  far  above  the 
unseen  stranger  on  the  step. 

"  Who  told  me  Arne  Sandstrom  left  a  be- 
trothed girl  in  Svadia  ?  "  said  one,  lowering 
her  voice  to  graver  colloquy. 

"  Oh,  well,  she  married,  herself,  of  course," 
replied  another  ;  "  and  any  man  who  could 
get  Lena  Lund  would  take  her." 

"  Lena 's  so  pretty." 

"  Lena 's  rich." 

"  Lena  can  sing  and  play  better  than 
some  Amerikanska." 

"  Lena  has  ten  new  dresses.  Arne  will 
not  have  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for 
many  a  day.  " 

"  She  is  not  spoiled  therewith.  I  always 
liked  her." 


THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM    259 

"  Ah,  my  mother  said  if  this  wedding  was 
going  to  be  in  Svadia  this  St.  John's  Eve, 
what  a  night  we  would  make  of  it !  " 

They  ran  away,  while  Elsa  repeated  to 
herself  that  this  was  the  Eve  of  St.  John  — 
night  of  arbors  and  rejoicing  at  home,  night 
when  the  sun  scarcely  went  down,  and  every- 
body feasted  and  visited  under  green-leaf 
tents.  Of  what  use  was  St.  John's  Eve,  or 
any  other  portion  of  time,  to  a  girl  put  to 
shame  and  despair  as  she  was  ?  Why  had 
Arne  Sandstrom  sent  her  money  to  come 
over  with  if  he  meant  to  jilt  her  on  her  ar- 
rival ?  Or  had  he  picked  another  betrothed 
for  her  as  well  as  himself  ?  She  would  not 
believe  her  Arne  could  be  so  evil ;  she  would 
knock  and  ask  for  him.  He  was  so  kind ! 
he  loved  her.  Yet  not  only  the  Amerikanns, 
but  those  laughing  girls,  had  said  plainly 
this  was  Arne  Sandstrom's  wedding;  any 
man  would  take  Lena  Lund  who  could  get 
her ;  Lena  was  so  pretty ;  Lena  was  rich ; 
Lena  could  sing  and  play  better  than  some 


260     THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM 

Amerikanska;  Lena  had  ten    new  dresses, 
and  she  was  not  spoiled. 

Elsa  bruised  her  cheek  against  the  edge 
of  the  second  step  above  her.  She  did  not 
know  where  to  go,  and  her  money  was  all 
spent  except  the  little  she  had  saved  by  go- 
ing without  food  during  part  of  her  railway 
journey,  and  she  had  saved  that  to  buy  some 
little  ornament  for  her  new  home  with  Arne. 
She  might  try  to  hire  herself  out,  but  how 
could  she  ever  write  back  home  where  such 
happy  news  was  expected  from  her,  or  how 
could  she  put  unendurable  anxiety  upon  those 
best  friends  by  not  writing  at  all  ?  Svadia 
was  so  pleasant,  especially  in  the  long  night- 
less  summers.  Good  and  kind  they  were  to 
strangers  there:  her  mother  always  baked 
waffles  and  carried  them  with  coffee  to  the 
morning  bedside  of  a  guest.  She  could  see 
her  native  meadows  stretching  away  in  the 
blue  northern  air,  and  the  iron  whip,  as  her 
mother  called  the  scythe,  beating  up  an  ap- 
petite in  those  who  wielded  it,  while  she  her- 


THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM    261 

self,  a  careless  little  maid,  came  bearing  the 
second  breakfast  to  the  mowers. 

A  quavering  but  hearty  voice,  which 
might  have  come  from  the  mouth  of  her  own 
grandmother  if  it  had  not  belonged  to  Peter 
Lund's  mother,  sung  out  a  Lapp-Finn  nurse 
song  by  an  upper  window,  and  Elsa  knew 
just  what  syllables  the  dancing  baby  was 
made  to  emphasize. 

"  Donsa  lupon, 

Hopsom  tup  an, 

Lanti  lira, 

Hopsom  stira : 
Spronti  lupon,  lupon, 
Hopsom  tup  an,  tup  an, 
Lanti  lira,  lira, 
Hopsom  stira,  stira." 

Dance  and  jump, 
Hop  like  a  rooster, 
Hop  like  the  skatan. 

Perhaps  this  very  instant  —  for  Elsa  made 
no  calculations  in  longitude  and  time  —  va- 
der's  mutter  danced  the  baby  under  her  home 
roof ;  and  none  of  her  people  knew  how 


262     THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM 

faint,  how  outcast,  how  bewildered  the  eld- 
est child  felt  sitting  on  steps  in  a  strange 
Amerikanski  town. 

In  Elsa's  box  of  clothing  was  the  finest 
sheepskin  blanket  her  mother  ever  made,  so 
white  in  fleece,  and  cured  by  buttering  and 
scraping  until  the  skin  yielded  soft  like 
chamois  leather.  It  was  lined  with  scarlet 
flannel.  She  could  see  the  storeroom  of  her 
father's  farmhouse  hung  thickly  with  such 
fleeces,  and  hear  her  mother  say  she  wished 
Elsa  could  take  more,  since  they  had  so  little 
money  to  send  with  her.  But  Arne  Sand- 
strom  had  sent  the  money  to  pay  her  way, 
because  he  loved  her  so.  They  were  chil- 
dren together,  and  he  was  held  as  dear  as  a 
son  in  her  own  family.  Elsa's  mother  never 
distrusted  him.  How  could  it  therefore  be 
possible  that  Arne  Sandstrom,  after  sending 
for  his  betrothed,  could  be  marrying  a  Swede 
Amerikanska  fleka  the  very  evening  of  her 
arrival ? 

In  her  intensely  quiet  fashion   the  poor 


THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM    263 

girl  was  wiping  away  tears  as  fast  as  they 
dripped  down  her  cheeks,  and  now  she  lifted 
her  head  from  the  step,  coming  to  a  decision. 

She  walked  up  on  the  veranda,  her  feet 
sounding  heavy  and  uncertain,  and  stood  at 
the  door  ready  to  knock.  Her  piteous  great 
eyes  moved  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  ample 
dining-room,  recognizing  Svensk  wooden 
spoons  and  beautifully  painted  and  polished 
Russian  bowls  in  various  sizes  on  the  side- 
board. Hard-baked  Svensk  bread,  so  loved 
by  the  white  and  firm  Scandinavian  teeth, 
and  all  known  home  luxuries,  with  un- 
heard-of Amerikanski  things,  smiled  at  her 
from  the  glittering  tables.  This  Lena  Lund 
would  be  called  a  mamzelle  in  Svadia ;  she 
was  very  much  above  a  poor  yungf  rau  like 
Elsa.  Any  man  might  be  glad  to  marry 
her.  Still  Elsa  would  not  believe  Arne 
Sandstrom  had  forgotten  his  betrothed. 

She  could  see  him  from  where  she  stood, 
in  an  inner  room  with  a  background  of  fine 
furniture.  How  beautiful  he  looked,  all  in 


264     THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM 

Amerikann  clothes,  and  with  soft  dark  gloves 
on  his  hands,  like  a  very  rich  man  !  His 
cheek  was  ruddy,  his  forehead  white,  and  the 
very  round  of  his  ear  —  how  well  Elsa  re- 
membered it !  Arne  Sandstrom  was  happy, 
and  laughing  aloud  with  other  people.  She 
heard  his  voice  while  she  stood  just  without, 
so  wretched  her  whole  soul  seemed  numb. 

In  perfect  silence  she  waited,  and  still 
saw  him  laugh  and  extend  his  hand  to  have 
it  shaken  by  one  and  another,  until  a  figure 
came  out  of  the  room  where  he  was,  to 
pass  through  the  dining-room,  and  she  knew 
in  an  instant  Otto  Jutberg,  who  came  to 
America  with  Arne.  Elsa  put  her  foot 
across  the  threshold  and  said,  to  call  his  at- 
tention, «  Otto." 

Otto  approached  the  door  and  looked  cu- 
riously at  her.  One  rope  of  her  flaxen  hair 
hung  down  on  her  breast,  and  she  looked 
travel-worn. 

"  Otto  Jutberg,  I  want  to  see  Arne  Sand- 
strom." 


THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM    265 

"  Arne  is  going  to  be  married  in  a  few 
minutes,"  said  Otto. 

"  I  know  he  is.  But  I  want  to  see  Arne 
Sandstrom.  Tell  him  to  come  here." 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  pressed  Otto,  coming 
nearer  to  her,  and  knitting  his  brows  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Otto,  when  you 
have  been  to  my  father's  nearly  every  St. 
John's  Eve  of  our  lives  ?" 

Elsa  felt  that  she  needed  only  one  more 
drop  to  her  cup,  and  that  for  some  voice 
to  raise  the  derisive  song  with  which  her 
countrymen  mocked  Scowneys,  or  inhabit- 
ants of  a  region  the  butt  of  all  Svadia. 

"  A  Scowen,  a  Scowen  "  — 

one  bar  was  enough  to  rouse  sudden  rage  in 
any  Svensk. 

But  instead  of  "  A  Scowen,  a  Scowen," 
rising  around  Elsa's  ears  this  enchanted 
night,  such  a  din  of  outcries  was  made  by 
Otto  Jutberg  that  people  ran  to  look  into  the 
dining-room,  and  then  to  swarm  around  her. 


266     THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM 

Arne  Sandstrom  leaped  two  chairs  and 
seriously  jarred  one  table,  to  receive  Elsa 
in  his  arms,  when  he  kissed  her  openly. 

"  Bring  me  one  of  the  chairs  I  kicked 
over,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  let  me  set  the 
tired  darling  in  it.  I  have  been  looking  for 
the  letter  which  would  tell  me  when  you  in- 
tended to  start.  Yes,  this  is  my  Elsa,"  he 
announced,  displaying  her ;  "  and  how  did 
she  find  her  way  in  here  alone  ?  Mrs.  Lund, 
Elsa  has  come !  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  has  been  crying,"  said  the 
plump  wife  of  Peter  Lund,  pressing  her 
hand.  "  It  was  enough  to  break  any  child's 
heart  to  reach  such  a  journey's  end  homesick 
and  un welcomed." 

At  this  Elsa  leaned  against  the  matron's 
side,  and  shook  with  sudden  sobs,  feeling  her 
forehead  and  hair  petted  by  a  good  mother's 
palms. 

Elsa  was  taken  upstairs  by  both  Mrs. 
Lund  and  Arne,  who  talked  rapidly  across 
her.  She  was  put  into  a  beautiful  room, 


THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTBOM    267 

and  young  girls  came  to  get  acquainted  with 
her.  Arne  asked  her  for  that  piece  of  metal 
which  would  redeem  her  baggage,  and  he 
handed  it  over  to  Otto  at  the  door.  Before 
she  understood  her  position,  or  was  quite 
able  to  lift  her  eyes  and  look  at  all  who 
wanted  to  talk  to  her,  the  box  which  had 
borne  her  company  from  Svadia  was  brought 
in,  and  Arne  told  her  the  other  wedding 
would  be  put  off  half  an  hour  while  she  got 
ready.  Then  he  drove  the  merry  company 
out  of  the  room,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  door  to  keep  at  bay  that  moment  all 
volunteering  bride  attendants. 

44  Can  you  be  ready  in  half  an  hour,  after 
your  long  journey,  my  darling?  "  said  he. 

44 1  can  soon  wash  off  the  dust  and  change 
my  dress,"  said  Elsa.  "  But,  Arne,  I  do  not 
know  anything.  Who  is  going  to  marry  Lena 
Lund?" 

44  Arne  Sandstrom.  And  you  will  be  mar- 
ried at  the  same  time." 

44 1  thought  that  was  what  you  and  Mrs. 


268     THE  BEIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTROM 

Lund  said.  But  who  is  going  to  marry 
me?" 

"  Who  !     I  am  —  Arne  Sandstrom." 

"I  will  not  do  it,"  said  Elsa.  "They 
never  have  two  wives  in  Svadia." 

Arne  Sandstrom  gazed  silently  at  her, 
puffed  and  exploded  his  cheeks,  and  bent 
over,  striking  his  knees  with  those  delicately 
gloved  hands  Elsa  had  first  noted  with  such 
awe.  He  roared  in  the  fervor  of  his  laughter. 
This  American  country  had  in  no  way  abated 
Arne  Sandstrom  as  a  Norseman. 

"  Oh,  Elsa,  my  snowbird,  if  I  should  tell 
this  on  thee  they  would  laugh  at  thee  from 
one  end  of  town  to  the  other.  Lena  Lund's 
bridegroom  is  my  cousin  Arne,  that  came 
over  with  Otto  Jutberg  and  me." 

"  That  was  Arne  Peterssen,"  affirmed  Elsa. 

"  But  there  are  so  many  Peterssens  and 
Yonsens  who  take  their  names  from  their 
fathers'  Christian  names  that  Arne  changed 
his  to  Sandstrom.  It  is  a  very  common  thing 
to  do  here." 


THE  BRIDE  OF  AENE  SANDSTEOM    269 

Elsa  laughed  also.  It  was  so  simple  and 
clear  and  Swedish  she  wondered  that  news 
of  Arne  Sandstrom's  wedding  had  caused 
her  even  a  misgiving.  She  left  her  chair  to 
swing  Arne's  hands  while  they  both  finished 
laughing. 

"  But  you  ought  to  be  ready,"  he  cried, 
"  and  not  keep  the  others  waiting.  I  got  the 
papers  for  the  wedding  when  Arne  got  his 
papers,  so  there  would  be  no  mistake  of 
names  on  the  record,  and  so  I  could  marry 
you  as  soon  as  you  came." 

Within  the  hour,  therefore,  Elsa  was  the 
bride  of  Arne  Sandstrom,  arrayed  in  her 
dark  blue  wedding  dress  of  wool,  and  not 
shaming  by  her  statue-like  proportions  and 
fairness  the  lighter  prettiness  and  silken  rai- 
ment of  Arne  Sandstrom' s  American  Swedish 
bride.  Happiness  and  love  were,  after  all, 
the  natural  lot  in  this  world,  thought  Elsa, 
sitting  by  her  husband  in  her  place  of  honor 
at  the  wedding  supper,  and  tasting  the  first 
course  of  such  a  feast  —  the  Swedish  soup 
of  rice,  prunes,  raisins,  and  molasses. 


THE   BABE  JEROME 

TIME, 1892 

THE  civil  engineer  sat  at  breakfast  with 
his  sister.  Their  table  was  a  stationary  one, 
on  stakes  driven  into  the  ground,  and  they 
drank  their  coffee  from  tin  camp  cups  with 
hooked  handles.  But  the  cook  served  them 
with  broiled  fish  and  game  stew,  brown  pan- 
cakes and  honey. 

The  tree  overhead  was  still  wet  with  dew. 
Lilian  had  a  scarlet  shawl  around  her.  She 
was  a  girl  whose  dark  eyes  and  distinct  eye- 
brows you  noticed  at  once,  adding  after- 
wards to  her  personality  hair  inclined  to 
cluster  about  the  face,  and  a  general  ele- 
gance of  figure  which  her  camp  dress  sug- 
gested instead  of  outlined. 

"  As  I  was  bringing  my  birds  in,"  said 
the  civil  engineer,  "  I  saw  Jerome  and  his 


THE  BABE  JEROME  271 

gander  sitting  on  the  top  rail  of  a  fence,  side 
by  side.  Jerome  had  his  neck  stretched  up, 
whispering  to  the  sky,  and  the  gander  had 
its  neck  stretched  up,  hissing  its  meditations. 
They  were  a  divine  pair  !  " 

"As  divine  as  Minerva  and  her  owl,  I 
should  think,"  said  Miss  Brooks.  "He 
seems  to  me  a  tragic  figure.  How  can  you 
laugh  at  him  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  help  laughing  at  him  ? 
But  I  do  pity  the  old  father." 

"  And  the  blind  aunt.  Eric,  I  'm  going 
across  the  river  to  see  her.  I  told  Mr. 
Marsh  I  would,  the  next  time  he  came  to 
camp." 

"  He  's  coming  now.  There 's  his  boat  on 
the  river." 

Lilian  watched  the  boat  and  the  Wabash. 
The  expanse  of  limpid  water  was  so  shallow 
in  places  that  its  pebbles  glittered  in  the 
sun,  or  a  sand-bar  showed  under  the  sur- 
face, while  the  current  in  its  channel  ran 
deep  and  strong.  Woods  clothed  its  banks, 


272  THE  BABE  JEROME 

and  a  gauze  of  blue  hung  over  its  southern 
bend.  Northward  a  bridge  stood  on  mighty 
legs  of  masonry,  screening  the  work  of  the 
engineer  among  rapids  beyond.  A  flat-boat 
ferry  was  being  poled  diagonally  across  from 
the  east  shore  to  the  west,  having  for  pas- 
sengers a  farmer  and  his  horse. 

The  approaching  skiff  grounded  also,  and 
Jerome's  father  stepped  slowly  out  and  came 
across  a  stretch  of  gravel  and  sward  to  the 
camp.  Quantities  of  gray  hair  and  beard,  a 
stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a  staff  in  his  hand 
made  him  venerable,  yet  his  arms  were 
strong  and  his  eyes  black  and  piercing.  He 
was  the  richest  man  in  his  county,  and  the 
man  most  indifferent  to  externals.  Over 
his  jeans  garments  he  wore  a  blue  woolen 
cape  edged  with  ancient  gimp,  evidently 
taken  at  random  from  women's  clothing. 

He  saw  with  approval  the  camp  appoint- 
ments :  the  civil  engineer's  men  breakfast- 
ing at  their  long  table ;  the  cook  moving  in 
and  out  of  a  canvas  kitchen  ;  and  the  young 


THE  BABE  JEROME  273 

lady's  tent,  revealing  a  pink  net-screened 
bed,  rugs,  and  stout  book-shelves. 

"  You  're  right  well  fixed  over  here,"  he 
called  out  before  the  campers  could  wish 
him  good-morning. 

The  engineer  said  he  always  tried  to 
make  his  camp  comfortable. 

"  And  this  is  as  pretty  a  stretch,"  con- 
tinued the  visitor,  drawing  nearer,  "  as  you  '11 
find  between  New  Harmony  and  the  Ohio. 
But  ain't  it  lonesome  for  sis  here  by  her- 
self all  day  when  you  and  the  men  's  out  ?  " 

"  Our  cook  stays  in  camp,"  said  Lilian. 
"  He  has  lived  in  our  family  since  I  was  a 
child.  So  I  feel  secure.  The  friend  who 
was  to  have  been  my  companion  here  was 
detained  at  the  last  minute.  But  I  made  my 
brother  bring  me,  anyhow.  Will  you  have 
some  breakfast,  Mr.  Marsh  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  obliged :  I  've  e't.  I  come 
across  to  look  after  the  Babe.  He  forgits  to 
have  his  breakfast  sometimes.  Seen  him  on 
this  side  —  the  Babe  Jerome?" 


274  THE  BABE  JEROME 

"  He 's  in  the  woods  with  his  white  gan- 
der," said  the  engineer. 

Mr.  Marsh  rested  against  the  tree  and 
braced  himself  with  his  staff. 

"  Billy 's  never  far  off  from  Jerome. 
The  Babe  gets  lonesome  on  the  river,  like 
sis  here,  and  that  gander 's  great  company 
for  him.  But  the  Babe  likes  to  be  lone- 
some. We  still  call  him  the  Babe,"  apolo- 
gized the  old  man,  "  though  he  's  twenty-five 
year  old ;  scarlet  fever  done  it.  He  was  the 
smartest  boy  on  the  river.  I  'lowed  to  settle 
in  Shawnytown,  and  send  him  to  college. 
His  mother  was  a  scholar.  Now  there's 
nothing  to  do  but  let  him  play  his  music. 
He 's  a  good  babe.  He  never  gives  me  no 
uneasiness  except  forgittin'  his  breakfast." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  breakfast  with 
us  ?  "  inquired  Lilian. 

"  Call  him,"  suggested  her  brother.  "  As 
for  me,  I  must  be  excused.  There  's  a  big 
day's  work  to  be  done  on  that  bar  —  time 
the  men  were  in  the  boats." 


THE  BABE  JEROME  275 

Captain  Eric  caught  up  his  broad  hat, 
and  flourished  it  in  adieu.  The  cook  ran 
after  him  with  a  list  of  needed  supplies. 
Lilian  watched  him  sitting  with  folded  arms 
on  his  camp-chair  in  the  stern  of  his  boat, 
until  the  rise  and  fall  of  oars  and  the  song 
of  the  men  drew  off  to  remoteness.  She 
turned  to  speak  to  her  visitor,  and  found 
Jerome  standing  with  him. 

"  Want  to  go  back  over  ?  "  his  father  in- 
quired tenderly. 

Jerome  shook  his  head.  His  visible  flesh 
had  a  porcelain  quality,  like  the  unstained 
clearness  of  infancy.  His  hair  glittered  in 
the  sun,  and  he  had  a  long  golden  mustache, 
parting  in  the  centre  and  trailing  down  his 
mouth  corners  below  his  chin.  So  strong 
and  manly  an  ornament  sorted  strangely 
with  perplexed  blue  eyes,  that,  in  spite  of  a 
puzzling  world,  laughed  with  the  delicious 
joy  of  life.  Jerome's  head  stood  upon  a  col- 
umn of  slender  body.  His  clothes,  to  which 
a  few  burrs  were  sticking,  would  have 


276  THE  BABE  JEROME 

seemed  too  fine  for  his  environment  if  they 
had  not  so  exactly  suited  him. 

"  Lost  his  hat  again ! "  bantered  the  fa- 
ther. "That's  the  fifth  straw  hat  I've 
bought  him  this  summer." 

"  If  you  will  have  some  breakfast  with 
me,  Jerome,"  said  Lilian,  "  I  will  go  to 
your  house  and  eat  dinner  with  you." 

"  That 's  a  bargain,  ain't  it,  Babe  ?  " 

The  Babe  Jerome  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  smiled,  and  sat  down.  His  gan- 
der, lifting  and  shaking  both  wings,  qua- 
vered a  remark  and  waddled  to  his  feet. 

"  How  white  Billy  is !  "  said  the  young 
lady,  after  the  cook  had  brought  fresh  food 
and  she  had  helped  her  guest. 

"The'  ain't  a  gray  quill  on  Billy,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Marsh,  his  bearded  lips  relaxing 
with  contentment. 

"  And  his  eyes  are  blue  —  blue  as  the 
sky  !  His  bill,  with  such  funny  nostrils  in 
it,  is  the  purest  coral.  I  did  n't  know  geese 
could  be  so  beautiful.  You  pretty  fellow ! 
Will  he  hiss  me?" 


THE  BABE  JEROME  277 

"  No !  "  spoke  Jerome  forcibly,  startling 
her  as  she  stretched  a  timorous  hand  to 
brush  Billy's  plumage.  It  had  satin  firm- 
ness. The  gander  squatted  on  his  webs  and 
observed  in  his  own  language  that  the  caress 
was  agreeable. 

Jerome  left  off  eating  and  leaned  on  his 
folded  arms  to  smile.  He  was  a  sylvan 
creature,  strayed  out  of  pastoral  days  into 
the  hazy  regions  of  the  Wabash. 

He  rowed  the  boat  back,  his  father  sit- 
ting in  idle  comfort  on  the  other  bench,  and 
Lilian  facing  the  oarsman.  She  enjoyed 
the  grace  of  his  torso,  the  veins  swelling  on 
his  hands,  the  steady  innocence  of  his  gaze, 
with  the  same  kind  of  satisfaction  given  by 
a  scent  of  sycamore  leaves,  or  the  exquisite 
outline  of  an  island.  Billy  swam  after  the 
boat,  the  water  curling  away  from  his  breast ; 
and  before  it  could  be  beached  he  had  left  his 
web  marks  on  the  home  sands. 

The  Marsh  double  cabin,  with  central 
chimney  hospitable  enough  to  engulf  thou- 


278  THE  BABE  JEROME 

sands  of  swallows,  stood  on  a  low  bluff. 
Another  and  more  imposing  house  was  ris- 
ing near  it.  The  workmen's  noise  mingled 
with  stable-yard  cackle. 

"  How  I  love  to  hear  chickens ! "  ex- 
claimed Lilian.  "  They  remind  me  of  some 
wonderfully  good  time  I  had  when  I  was  a 
child,  though  I  can't  recall  it.  You  have  all 
the  cheerful  racket  on  your  side  of  the  river. 
And  how  sweet  the  building  wood  smells !  " 

"Some  of  that's  sweet  pine,"  explained 
Mr.  Marsh.  "The  Babe,  he  carries  them 
chips,  and  sassafras  bark,  and  spice-wood,  and 
all  kinds  of  woods  things,  in  his  pockets." 

The  Babe  looked  at  Lilian,  repeating 
slowly  what  he  had  told  himself  many  a 
lonely  day,  in  forest  or  on  river,  — 

"  I  —  have  n't  got  —  right  sense." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  "  she  begged. 

The  father's  mouth  corners  fell  into  lea- 
ther grooves. 

"  But  Babe  's  got  idees,"  he  maintained. 
"  He  takes  to  nice  things.  So  did  his 


THE  BABE  JEROME  279 

mother.  I  'd  have  built  the  new  house  long 
ago  if  she  'd  lived.  And  I  would  n't  build 
it  now  if  it  was  n't  for  the  Babe.  Betsey 
and  me  like  the  cabin.  We  '11  miss  the  big 
fireplace,  and  them  hooks  in  the  jice  beams. 
I  took  Jerome  and  Betsey  down  to  Shawny- 
town  to  stay  one  winter,  and  I  'd  'a'  died  if 
I  had  n't  come  back  here  every  two  weeks." 

"This  is  a  lovely  spot,"  said  Lilian. 
44  When  you  are  really  settled  in  your  new 
house,  you  will  enjoy  it  more  than  ever." 

44 1  don't  know.  It 's  just  as  the  Babe 
turns  out  to  like  it.  The  cabin 's  been  his 
cradle.  If  the  new  one  goes  against  him 
I  '11  lock  it  up  and  bring  him  back  home. 
Come  in,"  invited  the  old  man,  climbing 
his  doorstep.  44  Here 's  Betsey  will  be  glad 
to  see  you." 

From  the  smoked  and  chinked  interior 
groped  a  large  woman  so  delicately  and  com- 
pletely white  that  the  blanching  appeared  to 
extend  through  her  eyes,  for  the  lids  re- 
vealed them  colorless.  She  wore  a  black 


280  THE  BABE  JEROME 

net  cap  and  a  dress  and  a  cape  of  faded 
lawn.  Her  heelless  soles  made  no  sound 
on  the  bare  boards.  The  palms  which  she 
spread  before  her  had  the  texture  of  shriv- 
eled dogwood  petals.  The  stirring  of  the 
lawn  clothes  set  free  scarcely  detected  per- 
fumes, —  of  apples,  and  mint,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  roses  which  grow  nowhere  now 
except  in  remote  and  dewy  country  gardens. 

"It's  the  young  lady  from  the  camp, 
Betsey,  come  to  visit  us  to-day." 

"  That  sounds  heartsome,"  the  blind  sis- 
ter responded.  Lilian  took  one  of  her  flut- 
tering hands  ;  the  other  half  unconsciously, 
with  the  swiftness  of  custom,  moved  up  the 
girl's  shoulder  and  passed  over  cheek  and 
head.  Lilian  noticed  in  what  masses  of 
wrinkles  this  handsome  old  face  hung,  and 
wondered  at  the  miracle  of  age  ;  at  the  child- 
ish sweetness  that  comes  back  to  toothless 
talk.  "I  love  to  have  the  young  around. 
It 's  been  missly  in  the  house  since  Babe's 
mother  died." 


THE  BABE  JEROME  281 

"Well,  take  a  cheer,"  said  Mr.  Marsh, 
"  and  I  '11  look  into  the  kitchen  and  tell 
Marthy  Dempsey  who  's  for  dinner.  Mar- 
thy  she  keeps  house  for  us,  and  she  's  a  good 
cook ;  she  used  to  work  in  a  tavern  down  at 
Shawnytown." 

Jerome  lingered  on  the  log  step  while  his 
father  performed  the  sacred  rite  of  seating  a 
guest.  Aunt  Betsey  groped  toward  him. 

"  But  where  's  the  Babe  ?  " 

"The  Babe's  as  far  in  as  he  likes  to 
come,"  said  his  father.  "  The  Babe  's  great 
for  outdoors  in  summer  time." 

"  The  dew  's  off  the  garden,"  spoke  Je- 
rome. 

"  He  never  disremembers  my  walk," 
chuckled  the  blind  woman.  "  As  soon  as 
the  jew  is  dry  he  fetches  my  bonnet." 

Miss  Brooks  herself  tipped  the  sunbonnet 
at  a  satisfactory  angle  over  the  black  net 
cap,  so  that  its  crown  sighted  the  heavens. 
Jerome  helped  his  aunt  to  the  ground,  and 
guided  her  around  the  house,  his  arm  on 


THE  BABE  JEROME 

her  waist.  He  glanced  backward  often,  to 
draw  Lilian  along,  and  she  sauntered  close, 
glad  to  be  a  part  of  all  this  innocent  life. 

"Woods  stood  at  the  rear  of  the  garden, 
and  abrupt  Indian  mounds  ruffled  their  tufts 
of  fern  almost  overhead.  It  was  growing 
warm  ;  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  humid  morn- 
ing remained,  even  under  burdock  leaves, 
which  Martha  Dernpsey  prized  for  her  but- 
ter. There  was  a  rank  hot  smell  of  mari- 
golds in  the  sun,  with  a  peppery  addition  of 
bouncing  betties.  The  sweet-williams  were 
fragrant  as  honey  and  long  spikes  of  red  or 
white  hollyhocks  swayed  in  the  faintest  of 
breezes.  Aunt  Betsey  scented  the  camomile 
bed  and  picked  bits  of  sweet-mary  and  basil 
for  Miss  Brooks.  The  sound  of  the  work- 
men's hammers  on  the  house,  the  rippling  of 
the  river,  and  the  summer  call  of  insects 
and  birds  filled  the  air,  until  it  seemed  to 
tremble  over  green  distances  with  this 
weight  of  pleasant  life. 

There  was  a  cherry-tree  full  of  ripe  black 


THE  BABE  JEROME  283 

fruit.  Martha  Dempsey  came  out  bare- 
armed,  but  with  a  sunbonnet  pinned  shut  be- 
low her  nose,  and,  with  the  unconscious  arro- 
gance of  the  country  maid,  ordered  Jerome 
to  pick  her  some  fruit  for  pies.  He  pulled 
down  the  lowest  branches  and  filled  her  tin 
pail.  Then  his  aunt  and  Miss  Brooks  sat 
under  the  tree  and  had  their  laps  weighted 
with  ruby  globes  on  platters  of  burdock 
leaves. 

"  I  like  cherries  best  of  any  fruit,"  said 
Lilian,  "  and  these  rich  red  ones  most  of  alL 
They  get  a  wicked  clip  on  your  tongue  that 
is  delightful." 

Jerome  considered  her,  and  said  with  con- 
viction, "  You  look  like  a  cherry." 

"  Then  these  tart  fire-drops  ought  to  be 
my  natural  food." 

"  This  is  Babe's  tree,"  said  Aunt  Betsey. 
"  He  planted  it,  and  it  has  growed  with  his 
growth." 

It  was  quite  dusk  when  Jerome  landed 
Miss  Brooks  at  the  camp.  Her  brother 
met  her,  and  she  exclaimed  to  him  :  — 


284  THE  BABE  JEROME 

"  I  have  had  a  lovely  day  !  And  I  per- 
suaded Jerome  to  j)ring  his  violin  and  play 
for  us  a  while.  His  playing  is  wonderful, 
Eric." 

"  So  is  Long  John's  singing,"  observed 
the  captain  with  contempt. 

From  the  men's  quarters  came  an  unmelo- 
dious  shout  of  —  "  Injun  puddin'  and  a 
punkin  pie  !  O,  Je-ru-sa-lam !  "  But  this 
wavered  and  ceased  when  Jerome  took  up 
his  violin.  His  fingers  floated  along  the 
strings,  and  the  score  he  played  was  never 
set  down  in  any  brain  but  his  own. 

The  moon  came  up,  and  he  played  straight 
on,  tilting  his  head  back  and  smiling  at  float- 
ing films  in  the  sky.  The  cook  drew  near 
from  his  tent,  and  the  men,  smoking,  crept  as 
near  as  they  felt  discipline  would  allow  to 
the  captain's  quarters.  Jerome,  in  the  full 
beatitude  of  his  one  unspoiled  talent,  knew 
no  audience.  With  a  final  triumphant  cry 
of  the  strings,  he  got  up  and  walked  off 
without  saying  good-night. 


THE  BABE  JEROME  285 

"  He  can  sling  a  bow  !  "  commented  one 
of  the  listeners.  "  They  say  around  here  he 
plays  the  birds  off  the  bushes." 

"  He  is  like  a  girl,"  said  Miss  Brooks  to 
her  brother.  "  I  enjoy  having  him  about 
almost  as  unreservedly  as  if  he  were  a  girl." 

"  Glad  of  it,"  replied  the  captain.  "  He 
can  pilot  you  through  the  woods.  It 's  a  pity 
the  poor  harmless  fellow  is  daft.  He  might 
have  been  something." 

Jerome  came  to  camp  every  day,  Billy  at- 
tending him.  Miss  Brooks  in  her  bathing 
dress  floated  on  the  -river,  holding  to  his 
boat;  and  he  kept  a  maternal  eye  on  her 
while  she  disported  herself.  He  brought 
her  Indian  hatchets,  and  arrow-heads,  and  a 
piece  or  two  of  pottery  left  by  the  Shawnee 
tribe.  The  two  explored  creeks  and  islands 
to  such  extent  that  Billy  frequently  left  them 
in  disgust.  He  snipped  grass,  and  quavered 
to  himself,  while  Miss  Brooks  read  or  talked 
to  Jerome. 

She  talked  to  Jerome  as  if  he  were  a  ra- 


286  THE  BABE  JEROME 

tional  being.  His  delight  in  the  woods  was 
even  keener  than  hers,  and  his  knowledge 
of  wild  creatures  much  greater.  He  taught 
her  skill  in  fishing.  His  joyful  father 
brought  offerings  of  eggs  and  cream  and 
Martha  Dempsey's  peach  preserves. 

"  The  Babe  pretty  nigh  lives  on  this  side 
of  the  river  now.  I  low  I  ought  to  help 
victual  the  camp." 

"We  can't  do  without  him,"  said  the 
girl.  "  He  makes  all  our  good  times." 

"  The  Babe  seems  to  be  growing  older-like 
this  summer,"  mused  his  father.  "  He  ain't 
to  say  manlier,  but  he 's  different." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Miss  Brooks, 
startled.  Her  color  faded  to  ivory.  She 
was  sitting  in  a  hammock,  and  occasionally 
stretched  out  a  sandaled  foot  to  propel  it. 
The  old  man  felt  her  beauty  with  a  dumb 
jealousy  of  all  bright  young  creatures  who 
had  not  been  robbed,  like  his  boy,  of  their 
birthright. 

Jerome  came  later  in  the  afternoon,  and 


THE  BABE  JEROME  287 

found  his  daily  companion  still  in  her  ham- 
mock, but  changed  toward  him. 

He  had  just  finished  an  seolian  harp  for 
her.  It  had  required  days  to  properly  sea- 
son the  wood,  and  other  days  to  assort  the 
colors  and  dry  the  glue  which  held  differ- 
ent layers  together.  The  instrument  was  a 
thing  of  beauty,  with  even  little  keys  to  wind 
the  strings.  He  had  worked  over  it  with 
all  his  faculties  excited ;  and  now  when  he 
stood  before  her,  holding  it  very  tenderly  on 
his  arm,  she  scarcely  looked  at  it. 

But  Jerome  knew  what  to  do.  He  moved 
off  with  his  harp  and  fixed  it  in  the  low  fork 
of  a  tree.  Then  he  raised  its  bridges,  and 
turned  to  watch  her  face.  The  harp  sighed, 
and  began  on  a  high  key  "  The  Last  Rose 
of  Summer,"  but  after  two  or  three  bars, 
lost  its  score  in  a  flood  of  delicious  organ 
harmonies.  Now  it  rose  to  a  cry  in  the 
zenith,  and  now  it  returned  to  the  "  Last 
Rose,"  and  died  to  a  whisper  of  melody. 
It  was  the  passionate  revelation  of  a  human 
heart. 


288  THE  BABE  JEROME 

Jerome  smiled  and  nodded  his  head ;  for 
the  girl's  chin  and  lips  trembled.  She  let 
her  book  slip  down  the  hammock. 

"  Talks,"  insisted  Jerome,  claiming  her 
attention  for  the  harp.  "  I  made  it  to  talk 
to  you." 

"  But  it 's  so  sorrowful,"  said  Lilian. 

"  It  —  isn  't  —  quite  right,"  explained  Je- 
rome. "  Can't  carry  its  tune." 

"  And  you  made  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  been  a  month." 

"  You  do  too  much  for  me.  I  have  been 
very  selfish  to  take  so  much  of  your  time." 

Jerome  put  up  his  lip  like  a  grieved  child. 

"  Don't  do  that !  "  said  Miss  Brooks 
sharply,  blanching  white. 

"  What  must  I  do  ?  " 

"  Sit  down  here,  and  let  me  read  to  you." 

He  sat  on  the  grass  and  she  read  austerely, 
the  weird  heart-cry  of  the  wind  harp  curving 
around  her  voice  or  whipping  it  with  ravel- 
ings  of  sweetness.  She  read  while  the  sun 
slipped  lower  and  lower,  and  dared  not  look 


THE  BABE  JEROME  289 

at  the  rapt  face  watching  her.  Then  she 
shut  the  book  and  said  with  careful  modula- 
tion :  — 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  the  wind 
harp.  I  shall  take  it  home  with  me,  and 
whenever  it  plays  I  shall  think  of  you." 

His  grieved  lip  instantly  smiled.  "If 
you  fasten  it  in  your  window  it  will  play  all 
the  time !  " 

"  There  is  one  other  thing  I  would  love  to 
have,  and  that  is  a  feather  from  Billy." 

Jerome  stretched  out  an  arm  and  drew 
his  familiar  toward  him.  Billy  twitched  his 
short  tail  and  curved  a  suspicious  neck 
while  his  master  stretched  one  glistening 
pinion. 

"  Do  you  want  his  whole  wing  ?  "  inquired 
Jerome,  groping  for  a  knife. 

"  Not  for  the  world !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Brooks.  "  Only  one  of  dear  Billy's  tiniest 
feathers,  to  put  away  and  look  at." 

Jerome  plucked  a  quill  and  handed  it  to 
her. 


290  THE  BABE  JEROME 

"  You  may  have  him  all,  if  you  want 
him." 

"  But  what  would  you  do  without  Billy  ?  " 

He  repeated,  "  Do  without  ? "  several 
times,  turning  the  suggestion  in  his  mind, 
and  gazing  at  her. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Miss  Brooks  said 
to  her  brother  :  — 

"  Eric,  I  believe  I  will  go  home  at  once." 

"  Guess  not,"  responded  the  captain. 
"  We  shift  camp  next  week.  I  want  you  to 
stay  until  then.  Are  n't  you  having  a  good 
time?" 

"  I  've  been  bathing  too  much  in  the 
river,  perhaps.  Mr.  Marsh  says  it's  agu- 
ish. I  shall  have  ague  if  I  stay." 

"  The  doctor  is  coming,"  said  her  bro- 
ther. 

"  I  must  go  home,  Eric ;  indeed,  I  must ! " 

"You  can't  wait  until  Jack  arrives,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Jack !     Is  Jack  coming  ?  " 

"  We  were  going  to  surprise  you ;  one  of 


THE  BABE  JEROME  291 

the  men  rowed  to  the  station  for  him  this 
afternoon." 

Miss  Brooks's  face  expressed  lively  antici- 
pation. 

"  Jack  is  coming !  Then  I  may  run  back 
with  him  to-morrow,  without  waiting  longer 
for  Marie." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  give  the  poor  fellow 
any  taste  of  the  camp  ?  "  demanded  her  in- 
dignant brother. 

The  wind  harp,  rousing  from  silence, 
burst  out  again  with  the  bars  it  would  never 
finish,  and  meandered  into  saddening  minors. 

"  What  machine  is  making  that  doleful 
sound  ?  " 

Lilian  turned  her  tragic  face  away.  Be- 
fore Jack  arrived  she  had  taken  down  Je- 
rome's offering,  wrapped  it  carefully,  and 
hid  it  in  the  heart  of  her  luggage.  The 
spirit  of  the  Wabash  gave  this  large  and 
engaging  young  arrival  its  cold  shoulder. 
Not  a  drop  of  rain  had  tarnished  the  sun- 
shine in  a  month  ;  but  he  reached  camp  in 


292  THE  BABE  JEROME 

a  chill  drizzle.  The  wind  became  so  sharp 
that  evening  fires  were  built.  The  river 
hissed  against  its  banks  ;  and  the  cook  re- 
ported a  broken  trot-line,  and  consequent 
failure  in  the  catch  of  fish. 

"  This  is  fine !  "  commented  Jack,  turning 
up  his  collar  as  he  smoked  with  the  captain, 
and  Lilian  huddled  to  the  fire.  "  Every  let- 
ter has  been  full  of  the  pleasures  of  camp 
life ;  and  now  I  experience  them  myself !  " 

"  Give  the  camp  a  chance,"  remonstrated 
Eric.  "  You  could  n't  drag  me  back  to 
town  !  Six  months  in  a  year,  thank  heaven ! 
I  am  a  man  !  I  live  outdoors,  free  from  the 
trammels  of  a  soft  civilization  !  " 

"  We  don't  mind  the  trammels  of  a  soft 
civilization,  do  we,  Jack?"  said  the  girl, 
snugly  slipping  her  hand  into  her  lover's. 

Jerome  appeared  at  the  other  side  of  the 
campfire,  looking  through  thin  smoke  at 
her.  He  had  his  violin  bag  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Hello !  "  the  civil  engineer  hailed  him. 
"  Pull  up  a  chunk,  and  sit  down,  Jerome." 


THE  BABE  JEEOME  293 

Lilian  ran  to  her  own  tent  for  another 
camp-chair.  But  Jerome  stood  still,  out- 
side the  wilderness  health,  and  looked  at  the 
stranger  whose  every  imposing  line  was  illu- 
minated by  the  fire,  and  who  acknowledged 
his  presence  with  a  nod. 

"  One  of  our  neighbors  from  the  Illinois 
side,"  explained  the  captain. 

"  Is  n't  the  river  rough  to-night  ? "  in- 
quired Miss  Brooks. 

Jerome  fteard  the  tremor  in  her  voice. 
He  answered  "  Yes." 

"  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  come.  I 
wanted  to  hear  you  play  once  more.  We 
may  go  home  to-morrow." 

"  Sit  down,  boy,"  urged  the  captain ; 
while  Jack  smoked  peacefully. 

"  No,"  said  Jerome.  "  I  '11  play  out  there." 

"Out  where?" 

"  Out  there  ;  on  the  moving  water." 

"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you !  "  exclaimed 
Lilian,  following  him  a  step,  relaxing  under 
the  eye  of  the  man  she  was  to  marry.  "  I 


294  THE  BABE  JEROME 

want  to  send  messages  to  your  father  and 
aunt  —  I  may  not  see  them  again." 

"  Singular  chap,"  observed  Jack  as  Je- 
rome walked  on  into  darkness. 

"  Half  witted,"  explained  Eric. 

"  He  's  not  half  witted !  "  vehemently  de- 
nied Lilian. 

"Quarter  witted,  then,"  amended  her 
brother. 

"  He  ?s  an  unfortunate  child,  lost  out  of 
paradise,  at  the  mercy  of  careless,  cruel 
wretches  like  us  below.  I  never  saw  a  wo- 
man with  a  nature  so  spotless." 

"  It  occurs  to  me  you  're  partial  to  your 
Wabash  angel,"  observed  Jack. 

Jerome  began  to  play.  He  was  evidently 
in  his  boat  plunging  with  the  current.  One 
could  imagine  him  pressing  against  his  neck 
the  instrument  which  holds  the  saddest  pos- 
sibilities of  sound.  It  wailed  down  river, 
and  ceased.  After  an  interval  it  began 
again  up  river.  Jerome  had  rowed  back 
against  the  current,  and  he  went  floating 


THE  BABE  JEROME  295 

past  the  camp  once  more,  pouring  through 
the  violin  the  vagaries  of  a  mind  in  double 
darkness. 

"  If  the  trot-line  was  n't  already  broken, 
he  'd  break  it,"  remarked  Captain  Eric, 
"  raking  back  and  forth." 

"  Fine  cheerful  banshee  for  a  night  like 
this,"  said  Jack. 

Lilian  huddled  by  the  end  of  a  log,  where 
she  could  hear  the  oozing  sap  complain. 
Again  the  music  died  on  the  river,  and 
again  it  began  farther  up,  with  an  orchestral 
support  of  lashing  water  and  gathering 
weather. 

"  I  can't  stand  it !  "  she  cried  out,  rising 
from  her  place.  "  I  'm  going  to  my  tent." 

"  Why  did  you  set  Jerome  on  ?  "  inquired 
her  brother  in  surprise.  "  He  never  knows 
when  to  quit.  I  '11  put  a  stop  to  it." 

So  going  close  to  the  shore  he  shouted 
such  a  peremptory  request  as  virile  man 
offers  to  weaklings.  He  patronized  Jerome 
also,  representing  that  the  water  was  too 


293  THE  BABE  JEEOME 

rough  for  a  boy,  and  recommending  the  boy 
to  go  home. 

Yet  hours  afterwards  when  the  campfire 
smouldered,  and  the  trees  were  wrestling,  Lil- 
ian, sobbing  and  smothering  her  face  with 
her  pillow,  heard  the  violin  once  more,  play- 
ing softly  in  imitation  of  the  wind  harp. 

Next  morning  the  river  was  a  valley  of 
black  and  sulphurous  vapors,  like  a  smoking 
volcanic  fissure.  The  ague  season  had  un- 
doubtedly set  in.  Captain  Eric  and  a  squad 
of  his  men  rowed  their  departing  guests  and 
the  young  lady's  luggage  up  river  to  the 
steamboat  landing,  and  from  this  the  party 
walked  to  a  station  in  the  woods. 

There  was  a  bustle  about  tickets  and 
checking.  The  station-master  hurried  out 
of  his  small  general  store  with  the  mail-bag 
on  his  arm,  for  the  train  was  already  in 
sight. 

Miss  Brooks' s  hair  clung  in  damp  rings  to 
her  face.  She  turned  to  impress  woods  and 
water  stretches  upon  her  mind  in  one  last 


THE  BABE  JEROME  297 

glance,  and  her  lips  went  white.  Behind 
her  stood  Jerome,  the  porcelain  quality  of 
his  face  increased  tenfold,  the  blueness  of 
his  eyes  pierced  by  the  keen  anguish  of  a 
man.  She  crossed  the  platform  to  him,  took 
his  head  between  her  hands,  and  rising  on 
tiptoe  kissed  his  forehead. 

Immediately  afterwards  she  was  handed 
up  the  railway  carriage  steps,  and  Jack  was 
making  a  place  for  her  and  her  traveling 
bag.  The  little  station  slid  away.  She  had 
forgotten  to  wave  to  Eric  one  of  the  hands 
which  trembled  as  she  adjusted  her  belong- 
ings over  and  over. 

"  Don't  say  a  word  to  me,"  she  com- 
manded, meeting  her  lover's  eyes.  "  I  did  n't 
know  I  was  going  to  do  it.  I  intend  to 
marry  you,  Jack,  because  I  would  rather 
have  you  for  a  husband  than  any  other  man 
in  the  world.  But  he  was  my  playmate. 
He  brought  back  my  childhood  to  me,  and 
in  return  I  gave  him  a  wound !  " 

Quite  a  year  passed  before  she  had  fur- 


298  THE  BABE  JEROME 

ther  news  of  the  Babe  Jerome.  Her  bro- 
ther moved  his  camp  two  days  after  her 
departure,  and  stayed  out  until  November. 
The  following  summer  Lilian  and  her  hus- 
band came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Marsh  in 
that  magic  White  City  which  stood  a  brief 
season  beside  Lake  Michigan.  The  blue 
cape  was  not  around  his  shoulders,  but  some 
other  incongruous  garment  marked  him. 
Lilian  grasped  his  hand.  He  greeted  the 
young  pair.  His  hairy  cheeks  were  sunken, 
and  the  keenness  of  his  eye  appeared  dulled. 

"  Are  Jerome  and  his  Aunt  Betsey  with 
you?" 

"  The  Babe  has  gone  off  with  the  quick 
consumption  that  took  his  mother,"  said  the 
old  man,  and  Lilian  became  aware  that  her 
nails  must  be  cutting  his  hand.  She  gasped, 
but  could  not  say  a  word. 

"  Yes  ;  Betsey  and  me 's  alone  now,"  he 
pursued.  "  I  brung  her  up  to  the  World's 
Fair  to  turn  her  mind  off  it.  ...  He  never 
done  well  in  the  new  house.  I  locked  it  up 


THE  BABE  JEROME  299 

and  carried  him  back  to  his  log  cradle.  But 
the  Babe  had  to  go.  I  took  him  to  Floridy, 
and  I  took  him  to  Colorado. ...  I  had  n't 
orto  repine  at  affliction.  He  was  a  good 
Babe. . .  .  He  made  a  wind  harp,  like,  and 
put  it  in  the  winder,  in  the  teeth  of  the  air  ; 
and  that  was  all  his  interest,  to  listen  while 
it  played." 

Lilian  found  her  husband  supporting  her, 
while  water  and  sky  and  white  palaces  and 
hurrying  people  swam  giddily  in  a  far-off 
circle.  She  said  "  Thank  you,"  and  clutched 
his  arm. 

"Sis  here,  she  liked  the  Babe,"  continued 
the  old  father,  forced  to  wipe  his  eyes  on 
the  corner  of  a  red  handkerchief  which  he 
drew  half  way  out  of  his  side  pocket. 
"  And  the  Babe  he  liked  her.  I  reelly 
thought  he  was  pinin'  sometimes  for  young 
folks ;  for  he  done  well  while  you  was  there. 
.  .  .  Billy  —  you  recollect  Billy  the  gan- 
der ?  He  takes  it  to  heart  like  a  dog. .  . . 
I'm  glad  I  seen  you.  I  was  goin'  along 


300  THE  BABE  JEEOME 

feelin'  too  bitter  in  my  thoughts  about  the 
Babe." 

Silently  parting  company,  the  old  man 
walked  on  amidst  wonders  which  he  scarcely 
noticed,  and  the  young  pair  turned  aside 
from  the  crowds. 

"  Oh  Jack  !  "  said  Lilian,  when  she  could 
control  her  weeping,  "  I  have  killed  the 
Babe  Jerome ! " 


THE   CALHOUN   FIDDLEK 

TIME,  1890 

NOVEMBER  frost  lay  on  the  ferns  and 
mosses  along  the  Calhoun  bluffs,  and  on  that 
castellated  mass  of  rock  with  round  turrets 
which  hangs  over  the  cove  known  as  French 
Hollow.  From  a  divide  in  wooded  hills  a 
small  stream  came  down  unfrozen,  quivering 
over  pebbles  and  clean  sand.  Crossing  an 
alluvial  plat  of  ground,  it  turned  beside  a 
cabin  to  meet  the  broad  and  whispering  Illi- 
nois. 

In  all  Calhoun  County,  that  long  nar- 
row ridge  isolated  between  two  great  rivers, 
there  was  not  on  height  or  in  cove  such 
another  cabin.  It  was  fifty-two  feet  square 
and  two  stories  high,  with  a  Norman  projec- 
tion of  the  eaves.  The  house,  with  its  back 
to  a  road  winding  at  the  foot  of  the  bluffs, 


302  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

sat  -facing  the  historic  Illinois  —  a  river  now 
yellow  and  wrathful  with  floods,  now  spread- 
ing in  blue  or  seashell  tints  away  to  the  op- 
posite forest. 

In  the  days  of  old  Antoine  Dejarnet,  the 
builder  of  this  log-house  and  the  first  French- 
man who  ever  set  foot  in  Calhoun  County, 
hospitality  had  overflowed  the  now  silent 
place.  Then  there  was  dancing  every  Sun- 
day after  mass,  in  the  undivided  lower  story 
like  a  feudal  hall;  and  the  family  violin 
was  coaxed  to  heavenly  tunes  by  Antoine 
Dejarnet  himself. 

But  long  before  this  November  afternoon 
the  French  colony  in  Calhoun  County  had 
dwindled  to  a  remnant;  the  forty  goats 
which  used  to  climb  those  heights  or  stand 
captive  to  half  old  Antoine's  many  daughters 
while  the  rest  milked  them,  had  not  a  single 
descendant;  and  the  last  Dejarnet  carried 
his  name  locally  disfigured  into  De  Zhirley. 

Jeanne  Sattory,  following  a  road  beside 
the  stream,  was  coming  down  the  hollow. 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  303 

The  mail-carrier  cantered  below  her  toward 
Kampsville,  riding  a  nervous  pony,  and  hav- 
ing the  letter  pouch  strapped  behind  him. 
Twice  a  week  he  thus  carried  news  through 
Calhoun  County,  where  there  are  neither  rail- 
roads nor  telegraph  lines,  neither  banks  nor 
thieves.  But  such  a  courier  feels  his  freedom 
and  importance ;  he  impudently  kissed  his 
merry  finger-tips  to  the  pretty  girl  up  the 
slope.  She  hid  behind  a  rock  until  he  was 
out  of  sight.  The  mail-carrier  had  seen  this 
girl  before,  and  desired  to  have  a  closer  look 
at  her.  The  usual  type  in  Calhoun  County 
was  the  broad  Dutch  maid,  whose  stock  had 
superseded  the  French.  But  Jeanne  Sattory 
felt  a  dread  rising  to  terror  of  all  men.  Her 
first  recollection  was  of  a  stepfather  who  had 
made  her  take  to  trees  like  a  cat,  every  time 
he  approached  the  dwelling.  Her  next  was 
of  his  son,  who  finished  the  small  rites  of  her 
mother's  funeral  by  taking  the  orphan's  ear 
in  his  grip,  leading  her  to  the  limit  of  the 
garden  patch,  and  dismissing  her,  with  the 


304  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

threat  of  a  kick  if  she  ever  came  back  there 
again.  He  kept  her  mother's  own  household 
goods  and  the  few  belongings  left  by  her 
father,  and  nobody  took  it  in  hand  to  inter- 
fere with  him.  She  came  back  across  the 
Illinois  River  to  her  native  county,  but  even 
yet  shrank  from  old  Henry  Roundcounter, 
whose  family  afforded  her  a  home. 

The  Rencontres  had  held  land  under  the 
first  Dejarnet.  As  Roundcounters,  and  farm- 
ers of  their  own  small  holding,  they  now 
kept  up  hereditary  interest  in  that  last  De 
Zhirley  who,  since  his  mother's  death,  had 
lived  solitary  in  the  great  square  cabin.  Mrs. 
Roundcounter  baked  bread  for  him;  and 
once  a  week  she  went  down  the  bluff  to  tidy 
his  bachelor  hall,  except  when  rheumatism 
detained  her.  This  afternoon  Jeanne  Sattory 
was  sent  reluctantly  to  the  task. 

The  last  De  Zhirley  was  a  ferryman ;  and 
it  must  be  owned  that  voices  calling  him 
from  the  other  side  of  the  river  were  often 
drowned  m  the  music  of  his  fiddle.  In  clear 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  305 

summer  nights  lie  walked  a  sandy  strip  in 
front  of  his  cabin,  hugging  the  fiddle  beneath 
his  chin  and  playing  tunes  which  had  come 
down  from  his  forefathers. 

The  ferryboat  could  now  be  seen  at  the 
farther  bank  of  the  Illinois.  Jeanne  knew 
she  might  do  her  work  before  it  could  again 
cross  the  current.  The  cabin  door  is  always 
left  unfastened  in  that  primitive  county. 
She  noticed  a  fresh  coon  skin  nailed  on  the 
logs  beside  the  door,  as  with  shrinking  she 
entered  this  haunt  of  man. 

The  imposing  old  dancing-hall  of  the  De 
Zhirleys  gave  her  a  welcome  from  its  ruddy 
fireplace  hooded  with  a  penthouse.  Jeanne's 
first  care  was  to  push  the  embers  together, 
heap  on  more  of  the  wood  which  lay  ready, 
and  clean  the  stone  hearth.  She  then  hung 
a  pot  on  the  crane,  and  filled  it  with  spring 
water.  Before  the  water  was  scalding  hot 
there  was  time  to  sweep  the  floor  and  beat 
up  a  feather  bed  which  had  grown  as  hard 
as  a  mat  on  its  corner  bedstead. 


306  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

An  unrailed  stairway  mounted  beside  the 
front  wall.  Jeanne  had  heard  Mrs.  Round- 
counter  tell  how  many  little  rooms  were 
overhead,  and  what  stores  of  family  goods 
were  piled  there,  disregarded  by  a  young 
man  who  cared  for  no  wife  but  his  fiddle. 

No  attention  could  be  given  to  the  upper 
rooms.  Amid  all  her  services,  the  girl  was 
full  of  starts  and  panics,  turning  her  head 
and  widening  her  eyes  at  any  stir  without. 
She  mopped  the  broad  boards  worn  by  foot- 
marks of  dead  dancers;  she  washed  log 
imbedded  windows  and  an  accumulation  of 
yellow  bowls  and  pewter ;  and  drew  the  only 
easy  chair  to  the  hearth.  Something  in  a 
green  bag  hung  on  the  wall  farthest  from  the 
fire,  which  Jeanne  knew  to  be  the  De  Zhirley 
fiddle.  She  touched  it  carefully  with  a 
turkey-wing  duster,  recoiling  from  its  faint 
ting  as  if  some  charm  had  been  ignorantly 
worked. 

Dried  meat  and  scarlet  peppers,  a  gun  and 
powderhorn  hung  on  the  richly  smoked  hewn 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  307 

joists.  She  felt  keen,  quiet  delight  in  the 
place,  and  reluctance  to  leave  it.  The  jollity 
of  former  times,  perhaps,  lingered,  making  a 
fit  atmosphere  for  girlhood. 

But  she  was  standing  with  her  shawl  over 
her  head,  casting  back  a  last  look,  when  some 
hand  blundered  at  the  latch  outside.  She 
sprang  upstairs  and  put  the  first  door  be- 
tween her  and  the  intruder  on  the  lightning 
of  impulse.  Some  person  entered  and  seemed 
to  pause  and  listen  suspiciously.  Her  heart 
labored  like  the  beating  of  a  steamer,  and  she 
expected  to  hear  feet  following  her  up  the 
stairs.  But  after  uncertain  shuffling  the 
comer  dragged  a  chair,  and,  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  effort,  sat  down. 

Jeanne  knew  it  could  not  be  young  De 
Zhirley,  whom  she  had  just  seen  through  a 
window  fighting  the  current  in  midriver.  He 
had  a  loaded  wagon  and  a  pair  of  restless 
mules  on  board ;  and  he  ran  back  and  forth 
outside  the  railing  of  his  boat,  now  poling, 
now  steering,  and  now  pulling  with  a  wing- 


308  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

like  oar.  Jeanne  could  have  been  at  the  top 
of  the  bluff  before  his  return.  And  here  she 
was,* trapped  in  an  upper  room,  vaguely 
ashamed;  unable  to  come  down  and  face 
eyes  which  might  insult  her,  yet  terrified  by 
the  prospect  of  indefinite  hiding. 

Daylight's  gradual  fading  out  was  of  more 
interest  to  her  than  the  accumulation  of  De 
Zhirley  things  around  her.  She  listened  for 
the  crunch  of  the  ferryboat  prow  on  gravel ; 
and  voices  and  departing  wheels  at  last 
moved  by  the  cabin,  and  the  proper  owner 
entered.  She  stealthily  unlatched  her  door 
and  set  it  ajar,  so  the  crack  intersected  the 
hearth.  There  in  the  seat  she  had  taken 
thought  to  set  ready  sagged  the  drunken 
person  of  her  stepbrother. 

"  You  here,  Billy  Aarons  ?  "  said  young  De 
Zhirley,  as  he  approached  the  fire ;  and  his 
voice  had  no  joy  in  it.  His  blind  eye  was 
toward  the  stair  door,  for  the  Calhoun  fid- 
dler was  a  one-eyed  man.  This  defacement 
scarcely  marred  the  beauty  of  the  athletic 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  309 

man  thrown  out  by  firelight.  Jeanne  Sattory 
had,  indeed,  never  seen  him  without  pitying 
people  who  were  two-eyed.  His  misused  skin 
yet  held  the  milk  and  wine  flush  of  child- 
hood, and  his  fleece  of  red-gold  rings  was  a 
gift  not  to  be  spoiled. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  here,  Theodore,"  said  the  man 
in  the  chair  thickly. 

"Mother  Eoundcounter  has  been  here 
too,"  added  De  Zhirley,  as  he  looked  about. 
"  It  makes  a  feller  feel  good  to  see  his  house 
clean  and  smell  new  bread." 
*  He  hung  a  teakettle  on  the  crane,  and 
thrust  a  fork  through  some  bacon  to  toast 
on  the  polished  hearthstone.  Then  he  drew 
his  table  toward  the  fireplace,  and  Jeanne 
could  see  his  appreciative  touch  on  the  yel- 
low ware  she  had  washed. 

"What  do  you  want,  Billy?     Did  you 
come  in  to  take  a  bite  with  me  ?  " 

"No."     Aarons    stirred   from   his   doze. 
"  I  'm  buyin'  cattle,  Theodore." 

"  No  cattle  to  sell  here." 


310  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

"  I  know  it,  Theodore.  You  're  a  poor 
man  by  the  side  of  me." 

Indifferent  to  this  fact,  De  Zhirley  turned 
his  bacon  and  proceeded  to  make  coffee. 

"  You  're  a  poor  man,  Theodore,"  repeated 
the  heavy  guest,  "  and  I  've  got  all  my  fa- 
ther had." 

"  And  all  his  second  wife  had,"  added 
young  De  Zhirley,  with  a  one-eyed  glance  of 
contempt,  at  which  Aarons  made  a  fist. 
"  You  go  upstairs  and  sleep  off  what 's  the 
matter  with  you,  after  I  give  you  some 
coffee." 

"  That 's  not  what  I  come  for.  You  're  a 
poor  man,  Theodore." 

"  Well,  don't  let  that  keep  you  awake ;  it 
don't  me." 

"  You  hain't  got  no  cattle,  nor  much  land, 
nor  even  two  eyes." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  on  my  blind  side, 
Billy?" 

"  But  you  've  got  a  fiddle.  Yes ;  you  've 
got  a  fiddle." 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  311 

De  Zhirley  moved  back  and  took  his  violin 
off  the  wall  with  a  jealous  motion.  It  was 
his  custom  to  play  while  his  supper  cooked ; 
but  as  he  felt  the  bow  with  his  thumb,  and 
fitted  the  instrument  to  his  neck,  he  looked 
distrustfully  at  Aarons. 

The  first  sweet  long  cry  filled  the  cabin. 
The  fiddler  gradually  approached  the  hearth, 
playing  as  he  came,  and  Aarons's  head, 
hands,  and  feet  responded  to  the  magic. 

De  Zhirley's  back  was  toward  Jeanne,  but 
she  saw  joy  in  his  whole  bearing,  and  herself 
felt  the  piercing  rapture  of  sound. 

"  Let  me  see  that  fiddle,"  demanded 
Aarons,  when  the  young  man  finished  and 
put  down  his  bow,  and  brought  the  coffee- 
pot to  set  on  the  coals. 

De  Zhirley  turned  a  distrustful  eye,  but 
no  precious  violin  toward  his  guest. 

"  Let  me  see  that  fiddle,  I  say,"  repeated 
Aarons,  rising  up. 

"  Behave  yourself,"  said  the  young  man, 
standing  a  head  above  him,  and  humoring 


312  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

him  as  a  child  might  be  humored  by  half 
granting  his  request. 

The  fellow  handled  its  ancient  body,  and 
looked  at  Stradivari's  inscription. 

"What 's  that  there,  Theodore ?  " 

"  That 's  the  maker's  name." 

"  Seventeen  hunderd  and  —  what 's  them 
figgers  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  year  it  was  made." 

"  Then  it 's  a  mighty  poor  old  thing, 
ain't  it?" 

The  fiddler  said  nothing,  but  tried  to  re- 
cover his  violin,  to  which  the  tormentor  hung 
with  both  hands. 

"  I  can  sell  it  for  you,  Theodore.  It 's 
worth  fifty  dollars." 

De  Zhirley's  face  expressed  impatience  to 
regain  his  instrument. 

"  Yes,  it 's  worth  a  hunderd  dollars.  I  've 
been  talkin'  with  a  man,  Theodore ;  that 's 
why  I  come  in.  You  give  this  fiddle  to  me, 
and  I  '11  make  some  money  for  you.  You  're 
a  poor  man,  Theodore." 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  313 

"  Let  go  of  it,"  exclaimed  De  Zhirley.  "  I 
don't  want  to  sell  my  fiddle." 

"  It 's  worth  five  hunderd  dollars." 

"  Let  go  of  it !  You  don't  know  what 
you  're  doing.  You  ain't  fit  to  do  anything 
now.  Let  go,"  cried  De  Zhirley,  as  he  felt 
the  greedy,  drunken  hands  crushing  his  trea- 
sure. "  If  you  don't  let  go,  I  '11  kill  you !  " 

The  two  men  struggled,  and  there  was  a 
crackling,  twanging  sound,  followed  by 
Aarons's  curses.  Then  De  Zhirley  caught 
him  by  the  neck,  dragged  him  to  the  cabin 
door,  and  kicked  him  far  out  into  the  dusk. 

Jeanne  hid  her  face.  She  heard  her  step- 
brother battering  at  the  fastened  door,  and 
finally  a  stone  dashed  through  the  window, 
to  fall  with  splintered  glass  upon  the  floor. 
A  storm  of  drunken  curses  surrounded  the 
house  and  died  away  in  mutterings  along  the 
bluff  road.  Through  this  clamor  an  awful 
silence  made  its  void  in  the  cabin. 

De  Zhirley  had  set  his  foot  upon  a  chair, 
and  was  nursing  the  mangled  instrument  on 


314  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

his  knee,  examining  every  part.  His  tense 
face  denied  despair ;  but  the  broken  neck 
hung  down  by  its  strings,  the  chest  was 
crushed,  the  back  split,  the  bridge  lay  beside 
his  foot.  Jeanne  watched  him,  forgetting 
the  darkness  of  the  bluffs  and  her  dreadful 
ambush. 

When  De  Zhirley  first  came  in  she  had 
decided  to  let  herself  down  from  an  upper 
window  rather  than  face  him.  When  he  re- 
commended her  stepbrother  to  a  sleeping- 
room  upstairs,  she  looked  about  in  panic  for 
something  which  could  be  made  an  immediate 
rope  or  ladder.  But  when  she  saw  the  vio- 
lin's destruction,  it  was  to  hang  outside  that 
tragedy  in  a  passion  of  sympathy.  She  had 
been  the  most  solitary  creature  in  Calhoun 
County,  but  this  supreme  sharing  of  the 
young  fiddler's  anguish  broke  the  shell  of  her 
dumbness ;  she  felt  her  soul  spreading  out 
its  crumpled  wings  like  a  new  butterfly. 

He  laid  the  violin  on  the  chair,  and  with 
a  sudden  abandonment  of  all  restraint  shook 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  315 

his  fists  above  his  head,  wailing  and  sob- 
bing :  — 

"  Oh,  my  Lord,  my  Lord !  What  will  I  do 
now?" 

It  was  the  agony  of  an  artist,  of  a  lonely 
soul,  of  unspeakable  bereavement. 

Jeanne  wept  in  her  shawl.  She  had  thought 
her  hunger  for  the  unknown  best  thing  in 
the  world  a  singular  experience.  She  waited 
until  his  tears  and  hers  could  be  wiped  off, 
and  then  opened  the  door  and  came  lightly 
downstairs. 

De  Zhirley  huddled  his  violin  again  in  his 
arms,  as  if  dreading  the  descent  of  more 
drunken  men,  and,  in  the  embarrassment 
and  anguish  of  a  man  whose  weakness  has 
been  spied  upon,  turned  his  face  to  the 
hearth.  Jeanne  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  drew  her  shawl  over  her  head. 
They  continued  in  silence  while  the  coffee 
bubbled  up  and  firelight  flickered  on  the 
wall. 

De  Zhirley  understood  her  errand  into  his 


316  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

cabin  with  the  simplicity  of  primitive  man- 
hood. He  knew  she  always  took  to  flight 
when  her  stepbrother  appeared.  When  he 
could  speak  without  a  sob,  he  said,  acknow- 
ledging all  she  had  done  for  his  comfort  that 
afternoon :  — 

"  I  'm  much  obleeged." 

Jeanne,  on  her  part,  ignored  the  services. 

"Is  it  bad  hurt?"  she  murmured,  with 
unconscious  maternal  pathos. 

He  offered  to  yield  the  wreck  to  her 
hands,  and,  drawn  from  her  place,  she  went 
and  stooped  on  one  knee  to  the  firelight.  De 
Zhirley  dropped  on  one  knee  beside  her,  and 
they  tried  to  fit  the  mangled  parts  in  place 
again.  * 

"  It 's  such  a  spite,"  said  Jeanne,  and  her 
trembling  voice  comforted  him  as  a  mother 
comforts  her  child.  He  had  instant  anxiety 
to  make  the  calamity  appear  less  to  her  than 
it  really  was. 

"  Mebby  by  patchin'  and  glue  I  can  put 
it  together  again  —  though  I  don't  know 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  317 

whether  it  '11  sound  the  same.  I  've  always 
thought  so  much  of  it,"  he  apologized. 

"  I  wish  he  had  broke  my  neck  instead  of 
this  fiddle's,"  said  the  girl  with  passion. 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  him  try  such  a  thing  as 
that,"  responded  the  fiddler  sternly.  "  I  'd 
killed  him  as  't  was,  if  I  hadn't  been  bigger 
than  him." 

"  I  must  go  back,"  exclaimed  Jeanne,  stir- 
ring to  rise  from  this  post-mortem.  "  They  '11 
think  I  've  fell  in  the  river." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,"  said  De  Zhirley.  "  It 's 
dark  now,  and  that  fellow  ain't  gone  far." 

"  No,"  objected  Jeanne,  with  sudden  ter- 
ror of  what  her  neighborhood  called  a  beau. 
"  I  don't  want  no  one  with  me." 

De  Zhirley  took  up  his  cap  with  gentle 
insistence  like  the  courtliness  of  a  great 
seignior.  He  smiled  at  Jeanne,  and  she  gave 
him  back  a  look  of  which  she  was  uncon- 
scious. 

"Your  supper's  all  ready,"  she  reminded 
him. 


318  THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER 

"I  ain't  hungry  like  I  was  when  I  come 
in  from  the  ferry.  Won't  you  set  down  and 
take  supper  with  me?"  invited  the  young 
man  sincerely. 

The  mere  suggestion  sent  Jeanne  Sattory 
to  the  door.  Their  hands  mingled  upon  the 
latch,  and  she  slid  hers  away,  loath  to  part 
from  a  touch  which  she  yet  eluded. 

De  Zhirley  made  the  door  pause  while  he 
looked  down  at  her  and  said,  with,  a  shaking 
voice :  — 

"  If  it  had  n't  been  for  you  —  there  ain't 
no  tellin'." 

Jeanne  had  no  reply  to  this  acknowledg- 
ment of  sympathy,  but  drew  her  shawl  to- 
gether under  her  chin.  Chin  and  mouth- 
corners  were  tempting  even  to  a  one-eyed 
man,  but  he  continued  with  gentle  courtesy : 

"Spite  of  my  fiddle's  gettin'  broke,  I 
b'lieve  this  is  the  best  day  this  cabin  ever 
seen." 

"  What  makes  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  'Cause  it 's  the  first  time  you  ever  come 
to  the  house." 


THE  CALHOUN  FIDDLER  319 

"  I  'm  obleeged  for  your  politeness,"  trem- 
bled Jeanne,  turning  scarlet;  and  she  lifted 
a  laughing  dark  glance.  "If  you'll  be  a 
little  politer  and  let  me  out,  I  won't  come 
no  more." 

"  Then  I  '11  go  where  you  are,"  declared 
the  Calhoun  fiddler.  "  I  '11  foller  you  from 
this  time  on." 

"  You  '11  have  to  walk  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road  if  you  do,"  said  Jeanne  Sattory ; 
and  they  stepped  out  and  took  the  way  up 
the  bluff,  two  figures  indistinct  in  darkness, 
with  a  width  of  wagon-track  between  them. 


A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR 

A  conversation  in  Egypt,  which  is  an  undefined 
region  of  Southern  Illinois 

TIME,  1898 

Miss  LUCY  MILLS  waited  with  three 
early  arrivals  in  her  sitting-room.  The  rest 
of  the  people  would  not  gather  for  half  an 
hour.  Her  wide  house,  venerable  for  the 
region  in  which  it  stood,  hugged  by  vines 
and  mossy  roofed,  was  in  perfect  order  ;  and 
sheaves  of  flowers  exhaled  fragrance  around 
an  object  placed  in  the  centre  of  her  parlor. 
Neighbors  no  longer  trod  about  on  tiptoe, 
for  everything  was  ready,  and  the  minister 
might  arrive  at  any  moment. 

Miss  Lucy  sat  a  dignified  spinster,  whose 
sympathies  ramified  through  the  entire  hu- 
man race.  She  was  so  homely  that  strangers 
turned  to  look  at  her  as  at  a  beauty.  Mr. 


A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAE     321 

Sammy  Blade  was  in  his  thirties,  but  she 
considered  him  a  youth,  having  helped  his 
mother  to  nurse  him  through  measles  and 
whooping-cough.  Mr.  Sammy  had  a  pro- 
truding pointed  beard  and  rolled  his  silly 
bald  head  on  his  shoulders  when  he  talked. 
He  had  studied  medicine  but,  failing  of 
practice,  was  turning  his  attention  to  the 
peddling  of  fruit-trees.  Coming  home  and 
hearing  the  news,  he  hastened  to  appear  at 
Miss  Lucy's  house. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plankson  had  returned  to 
the  neighborhood  to  visit.  The  husband  was 
a  frisky  gray  little  man,  and  his  wife  was  a 
jimp  woman  in  stiff  black  silk  with  large 
lips  and  shifty  eyes. 

All  three  of  Miss  Lucy's  callers  coughed 
and  made  the  unconscious  grimaces  of  plain 
people  who  have  not  learned  the  art  of  ex- 
pression. They  sat  with  their  hands  piled 
on  their  stomachs.  Yet  while  they  longed  to 
get  at  facts  which  only  Miss  Lucy  knew,  they 
approached  these  facts  roundabout,  bringing 


322      A  MAN  FEOM  THE  SPANISH  WAR 

newsy  bits  of  their  own,  and  avoiding  by 
common  instinct  the  subject  of  war  with 
Spain. 

"  Have  you  heard  that  Emeline  Smith's 
oldest  girl  has  experienced  religion  ? "  in- 
quired Mr.  Sammy  solemnly,  breaking  the 
silence  of  the  down-sitting  after  greetings. 

"  No,  I  had  n't  heard  it,"  responded  Miss 
Lucy,  in  the  soft  slow  drawl  which  her  can- 
did speech  made  its  vehicle. 

"  Law  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Plankson, 
"  Emeline  Smith  was  always  a  great  hand 
for  revivals.  If  she  had  went  less  to  meet- 
ings and  had  saw  more  to  do  in  her  own 
house,  her  children  would  be  better  brung 
up." 

"  Seem-me-like  there  is  some  spite-work 
against  Emeline  Smith  amongst  the  wo- 
men," observed  Mr.  Plankson.  "I  was  a 
beau  of  Emeline' s  onct.  I  went  to  see  her 
the  other  day,  and  she  laughed,  and  waved 
the  broom,  and  acted  so  glad  Jane  can't  get 
over  it." 


A  MAN  FEOM  THE  SPANISH  WAE  323 
"  You  orto  married  her,"  said  Mrs.  Plank- 
son  crisply.  "  You  'd  be  richer  than  you 
are.  Her  mother  was  the  savin 'est  person 
I  ever  heard  of.  She  give  a  tea-party  one 
time,  and  the  milk  floated  in  lumps  on  top 
the  cups.  She  said  she  did  n't  see  how  it 
could  be  sour,  when  she  had  put  saleratus  in 
it  and  boiled  it  twice  !  Them  Smiths  got 
their  money  from  a  rich  old  aunt,  that  used 
to  cut  up  squares  of  tissue  paper  to  make 
handkerchiefs.  I  seen  her  one  time  myself, 
when  she  was  a- visiting  the  Smiths,  come  to 
meeting  with  a  wreath  of  live  geranium 
leaves  around  her  bonnet,  in  winter,  and 
them  leaves  all  bit  black  with  the  cold! 
We  've  heard  she  would  set  before  the  parlor 
fire  in  city  hotels  where  she  boarded,  with 
her  dress  turned  up  on  her  knees,  showing 
her  little  sticks  of  legs  in  narrow  pantalets 
and  white  stockings,  just  to  save  fire  hi  her 
room  —  and  young  ladies  obliged  to  receive 
young  men,  with  her  a-setting  there !  " 
Mr.  Sammy  coughed  gently,  for  Mrs. 


324     A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH   WAR 
Plankson  had  overlooked  his  presence  in  her 
wrath  against  Emeline  Smith's  relations. 

To  cover  the  situation  her  husband  di- 
rectly inquired,  "  What 's  become  of  them 
Ellison  girls,  seven  sisters,  that  all  dressed 
alike  and  carried  umberellas  the  same  color  ? 
They  used  to  walk  into  church  in  Indian 
file.  I  never  in  my  life  seen  them  go  two 
or  three  abreast." 

"  They  all  live  where  they  used  to  and 
look  like  they  always  did.  For  they  was 
born  old-like.  Carline,"  said  Miss  Lucy, 
"  took  to  herb  doctorin'.  Along  about  the 
time  that  President  Garfield  was  shot,  Car- 
line  got  very  dissatisfied.  '  I  know  just 
what  would  fetch  that  bullet  out,'  she  used 
to  say,  '  and  the  only  thing  that  would  fetch 
it  out.' " 

"  And  what  was  that  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Sammy,  rounding  his  lips  and  stretching  his 
short  neck  forward. 

"  Spearmint  tea !  " 

Mrs.  Plankson  beat  her  right  palm  softly 


A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR      325 

on  her  left  forearm  and  leaned  over,  shak- 
ing. It  would  not  have  been  decorous  to 
cackle  out  loud.  The  American  flag  and  its 
Cuban  little  sister,  draped  together  around 
the  wide  doorway  of  the  parlor,  swayed  in 
the  air.  She  glanced  through  the  open  por- 
tal, her  oblique  eyes  slanting  up  to  Miss 
Lucy's  hanging  lamp  decorated  with  feathery 
asparagus. 

"  Carline  told  my  niece,"  Mrs.  Plankson 
added  to-  the  Ellison  subject,  "  why  she 
never  got  married." 

" Did  she  have  a  disappointment?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Sammy,  as  one  of  the  younger 
generation,  who  fully  sensed  a  woman's  loss 
in  not  obtaining  a  companion  like  himself. 

"  No.  '  Do  you  know,'  says  she  to  my 
niece,  '  why  I  never  got  married  ?  '  '  No,' 
says  my  niece,  '  I  don't.'  — '  Tew  skittish  ! ' 
says  Carline." 

"  I  never  seen  such  a  neighborhood  as  this 
is  for  old  maids  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Plankson. 

Miss  Lucy  regarded  him  with  a  virgin's 


326      A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR 

pitying  tolerance.  Homely  as  she  was,  she 
thought  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
her  to  have  taken  up  with  the  likes  of  Wil- 
liam Plankson  in  his  best  days. 

"  There  has  been  too  much  marryin'  and 
givin'  in  marriage  in  this  neighborhood," 
she  declared  with  her  soft  drawl. 

"  Seem-me-like  you  ain't  no  good  judge 
of  that,  Lucy,"  bantered  Mr.  Plankson. 

"  It 's  Emeline  Smith  that 's  the  judge," 
thrust  in  his  wife. 

Miss  Lucy  contemplated  silently. 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  Jaw-awn  and  Sue 
Emma,"  she  said  ;  and  the  other  three  com- 
posed themselves  to  hear  the  facts  concern- 
ing the  man  from  the  Spanish  war.  With 
a  rustle  like  that  of  a  congregation  settling 
to  the  sermon  after  preliminaries,  they  moved 
their  feet  and  hands  and  waited  on  Miss 
Lucy. 

"  I  was  against  the  match,  for  Sue  Emma 
had  been  married,  and  was  through  with  it. 
Her  man  died  and  left  her  with  a  farm  and 


A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR      327 

two  children  ;  and  a  widow  well  fixed  is  a 
sight  better  off  than  a  married  woman." 

Mrs.  Plankson  gave  involuntary  assent 
and  then  glanced  with  oblique  apprehension 
at  her  husband,  whose  will  was  made  in  her 
favor. 

"  But  Sue  Emma  was  n't  of  Yankee  stock 
like  the  Ellison  girls.  She  felt  pestered  to 
get  along  by  herself." 

"  Seem-me-like  a  man  always  is  needed  on 
a  farm,"  put  in  Mr.  Plankson. 

"  Sue  Emma  thought  that-a-way.  But  I 
talked  reel  plain  to  her  when  she  took  up 
with  Jaw-awn.  I  had  n't  nothing  against 
Jaw-awn,  except  he  was  a  man.  He  was 
without  property,  but  he  was  mighty  good 
to  Sue  Emma  and  the  children.  Seem-like 
he  thought  as  much  of  the  children  as  he  did 
of  her.  And  when  they  had  been  married  a 
couple  of  years  and  the  new  baby  come,  Jaw- 
awn  would  have  been  tickled  to  death  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  losin'  it  and  Sue  Emma. 
Now  that  woman  might  have  been  livin' 


328      A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH   WAR 

to-day  if  she  had  let  men  alone.  But  Jaw- 
awn  was  a  great  hand  for  his  folks.  I 
thought  he  would  go  crazy.  Seem-like  he 
could  neither  lay  nor  set  when  he  come  home 
from  buryin'  Sue  Emma  and  the  baby  ;  but 
just  wandered  around,  Lolly  Loo  and  the 
little  boy  holdin'  one  onto  each  of  his  hands." 

"Lolly  Loo?"  challenged  Mrs.  Plank- 
son.  "  What-for  name  is  that  ?  " 

"  Laura  Louise ;  but  they  called  her  Lolly 
Loo.  Jaw-awn  nacherly  had  to  have  folks 
to  do  for.  I  believe  he  would  have  got 
along  reel  well  with  the  children,  if  he  had 
been  let  alone  ;  for  he  was  a  good  manager. 

"  But  Sue  Emma's  father  and  mother 
moved  right  onto  the  place  after  the  funeral, 
and  the  first  thing  they  done  was  to  turn 
Jaw-awn  out.  I  suppose  he  had  rights  in 
law,  but  he  did  n't  make  no  stand  for  rights  ; 
what  he  seemed  to  want  was  folks.  He  'd 
been  an  orphan-like,  without  father  or 
mother,  and  knocked  around  the  world  and 
got  kind  of  homesick  clean  through.  Get- 


A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR      329 

tin'  Sue  Emma  and  her  children  was  the 
same  to  him  as  comin'  into  a  fortune,  and 
when  he  was  throwed  out  of  them  he  give  up. 

"  The  children,  they  felt  terrible,  for  they 
thought  so  much  of  Jaw-awn ;  and  cried 
and  begged. 

"  <  Jaw-awn  won't  be  no  trouble,  gram- 
maw,'  says  Lolly  Loo.  '  I  can  cook  enough 
for  Jaw-awn  to  eat,  if  you  let  him  stay.' 

"  But  the  old  couple,  they  up  and  throwed 
him  out.  And  when  he  stopped  here  on  his 
way  to  Springfield  I  could  see  the  man  was 
clean  broke  down. 

"  The  very  next  thing,  along  come  this 
excitement  about  war  with  Spain,  and  I  seen 
Jaw-awn's  name  among  the  volunteers.  I 
knowed  he  wouldn't  ever  get  through  the 
war.  Sure  enough,  word  come  — .  I  tele- 
graphed to  have  him  sent  here.  I  knowed 
the  children's  grandpaw  and  grandmaw 
would  n't  do  it.  And  I  sent  them  word, 
but  they  don't  want  to  excite  the  children, 
so  none  of  that  family  will  come. 


330      A  MAN  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR 

"  I  don't  say  nothing  about  the  expense  : 
I  have  some  means.  But  when  I  think  of 
them  children  that  he  was  a  father  to  —  him 
being  so  wrapped  up  in  his  folks  —  and 
them  slippin'  to  the  bars  like  they  do  to  see 
if  Jaw-awn  is  comin'  back  and  not  even 
knowin'  that  he  lays  a  soldier  in  his  coffin 
in  that  parlor  —  without  any  folks  to  drop 
a  tear  on  him  —  I  feel  like  as  if  things  was 
wrong  !  " 

Miss  Lucy  arose  and  entered  the  parlor. 
She  rearranged  the  American  and  Cuban 
flags  which  draped  the  plain  casket,  and 
touched  the  flowers  and  a  huge  wreath  bear- 
ing the  initials  G.  A.  R. 

Her  three  guests  followed  her  in  silent 
awe.  She  had  wiped  her  eyes  and  was 
ready  to  add,  — 

"  The  minister  has  took  for  his  text,  4  He 
setteth  the  solitary  in  families.'  I  hope 
everybody  will  turn  out.  The  weather  is 
nice.  Some  will  come  because  he  is  the 
first  soldier  buried  here  from  the  Spanish 


A  MAN  FEOM  THE  SPANISH  WAR      331 

war,  and  the  Grand  Army  Post  has  took  it 
up  and  will  march  and  fire  a  salute  over  his 
grave.  I  don't  know  as  the  dead  care  any- 
thing about  it,  but  I  'd  kind  of  like  to  see 
Jaw-awn  have  as  nice  a  funeral  as  if  he  had 
folks." 


KLECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED 
BY   ».   O.    HOUGHTON   AND   CO. 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
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